


Kisses 7

by Nny



Series: Winterhawk Kisses [7]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Winterhawk kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 97
Words: 48,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22018441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: A continuing collection of the ficlets posted on the winterhawkkisses tumblr.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Winterhawk Kisses [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/751041
Comments: 74
Kudos: 177





	1. Chapter 1

Clint looked down at the tidy sheets of the bed, then looked up to meet the stranger’s cool grey eyes with a grin.

“Flip you for it?”

The howling of the wind outside filled the silence between them, the windows rattling in their frames with the fury of it. Something slammed against the outside wall, and Clint was impressed that the other guy didn’t even flinch; he jumped halfway out of his skin.

“Flip for it,” the man said, flatly. He had a hoarse kind of voice, like he’d got out of the habit of talking.

“Seems only fair,” Clint said, and tried on a winning smile - not with any particular hope that it’d work, which was unfortunate, because the guy had a face that Clint would cross burning coals for. (He’d learned the trick from an acrobat called Meera. For that face, though, he might’ve done it even if he hadn’t.)

“I’m paying for this room,” the man said, and his voice was easing up a little now, warming right alongside the air in the room. “You, as far as I can work out, picked the lock to try and turn the place over.”

“Hey!” Clint’s annoyance was only partly for effect. “I don’t steal!”

“Just breaking and entering, then?”

“The heater in my truck broke,” Clint said, “and I didn’t have enough for a room.” He mumbled that last part, shrugged one shoulder a little stared fixedly at the painting of a sheep.

“I get the right side,” the guy said abruptly, and Clint gave him a disbelieving grin, 100% real this time and aching his cheeks with the width of it.

“Fuck,” the guy said, halfway under his breath, “the things I do for a pretty face.”


	2. Chapter 2

When Tony disappeared into his workshop for hours on end, there was never any guessing what would come out with him on the other side. Depended a lot on how much sleep he’d had, how many bottles there were in there with him; it depended a lot on his mood. It’s possible that they shouldn’t have let him in there after Christmas movie night and a couple too many eggnogs, but now the tiny Roomba-like robot - labelled Dum6A55 on a strip of masking tape - had a holographic projector attached to its chassis. Apparently its only function was to catch people unawares with a holographic projection of mistletoe hovering unnervingly above their heads. 

Mostly Dum6A55 hung out in the lobby, which was honestly a hell of a relief. Clint tended to wander in through service entrances, delivery bays and occasionally air vents, so he figured he was pretty safe from its romantical scheming. He didn’t have anything against mistletoe per se, he just didn’t want to be caught out with one person in particular. 

He’d be fine with Natasha’s patronising forehead kisses, Steve’s idiot-blushing acceptance of Clint’s temple-smooch. Wanda he’d kiss on top of her head, and Sam would probably yank him down for a whiskery cheek kiss. Scott was as bad for one-upmanship as Clint was, so they’d likely end up tangled in some kinda movie epic bent-back swelling strings kiss, which wouldn’t be so bad if the only person Clint _wanted_ kisses like that from wasn’t the least likely to give ‘em. 

He couldn’t imagine a kiss from Bucky, see. He’d tried - _lord_ had he ever tried - but he just couldn’t fit his head around it. 

Bucky was scowls and soft sweaters and shiny hair and sharp knives. Bucky was a whole parcel of contradictions wrapped up into a beautiful goddamn package, and he made Clint _laugh_ which was frankly miserably unfair. Clint had lost his grip sometime in Bucky’s second week with them, and he’d been falling ever since. 

Clint had been avoiding Bucky ever since Dum6A55 had left Tony’s workshop, and it was honestly hurting his _soul_. 

He jimmied open the service door round back of Stark Tower, the one hidden by bushes that was way too easy to get into. There was probably some kinda biometrics-triggered laser grid that would slice him in half if he wasn’t supposed to be there, but Clint still felt a little guilty for not reporting how easy the lock was to pick. 

The corridor was plain concrete, echoey and cold, and Clint’s stride faltered slightly when he heard the other pair of footsteps approaching. He backed up a couple of paces when Bucky appeared, something bulky under one arm and a dark scowl on his face. 

“Hey, Buck,” Clint said, and tried for a smile. 

“Stay put,” Bucky said, “I’ve been looking for you all goddamn day.” He actually grabbed onto one of the pockets of Clint’s cargo pants to keep him in place as he ducked down to place the bulky thing on the floor with a metallic clang. 

“What the -” Clint started, as Dum6A55 started up with a happy little beep, and the holographic projection lit the corridor up green around them. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey,” Clint says. 

It echoes a little - metal walls - and for a moment Bucky’s at the beginning again; everything around him is unfamiliar like his first day in the tower. Back when no one’s voice made him feel more comfortable, back when he could never tell who was hiding a smile, back when Clint’s voice in particular wasn’t enough to unwind every single knot of tension that Bucky carries around with him. But the vents, he supposes, ain’t as unfamiliar as all that, and that thought untangles something central, something key. 

“Hey,” Bucky croaks, and that’s permission enough. 

It’s an intersection, a space where a bunch of different vents meet, and it’s - all of the vents are - way bigger than this place could ever need. Sure, Clint’s a fan of crawling around in ‘em, but Bucky figures it’s more for Tony’s benefit; he’s found a whole bunch of escape routes that he’s not sure anyone else knows about, and he’s seen the way Tony looks around when he enters a room. It’s a space big enough for the both of them, is Bucky’s point; big enough for Clint to scramble around so he can sit down opposite him, their knees hitched up between them, and carefully and precisely overlap their toes. 

Even with the serum, Bucky’s always had cold feet. Clint’s fuzzy socks are just about the best thing he’s ever felt. 

“Too much?” Clint asks, with a jerk of his head that Bucky kinda assumes means the world outside of this. There’s a lot of it, especially this week - a lot of people, a lot of noise, a lot of memories that arrive in a wash of painful joy and ebb like razor blades. Bucky is doing what he can - for Steve, mostly, he’s doing what he can - but every now and again the Christmas spirit is a little too haunting and Bucky’s gotta escape. 

“I’ll be okay,” Bucky says, and Clint nods - _sure, sure_ \- and wiggles his toes against Bucky’s, just a little. 

Bucky’s seen Clint watching him. When Steve is getting a little too much, a little too loud and bright, working a little too hard to give Bucky what he needs. He’s been singing and decorating and grinning honest and wide, but there’s a little something in his eyes when he looks at Bucky that feels like he’s gotta force a smile onto his face, gotta be loud and bright too. He thinks maybe Clint knows about pulling a mask on for other people. About working to be what other people need. 

“Too much?” Clint says again, and Bucky figures he means just them, just here. He meets Clint’s blue eyes, sweet and earnest, and offers him a smile that’s just about as real as it gets. 

“Exactly what I’ve been needing,” Bucky says. 


	4. Chapter 4

“The fuck’re you doing?” Bucky said, his voice crackling out of him like gravel under booted feet. He reached up without even fully opening his eyes and shoved Clint’s face away from his, even while his other hand slid up Clint’s thigh where he was straddling Bucky’s chest. 

“Not waking you up,” Clint said, his voice a little muffled by Bucky’s palm but fucking _christ_ too awake for the lack of blind-edges light. 

“What?” 

There was a crinkle of paper, and Clint’s voice took on the tone of recitation. 

“No shaking you awake, no waterguns, no loud noises, no vibrations, no ‘accidental’ dropping things on you -” 

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered, hopeless goddamn charmed, “of _course_ you were taking notes.” 

“ - no kisses, no working Lucky up so he jumps on the bed, no alarm clocks, no surrounding you with coffee mugs.” 

“So you figured you’d just climb aboard?” 

Clint snagged one of Bucky’s fingers between his teeth and bit down just a little, grinning around it as Bucky couldn’t help the soft noise in the back of his throat. 

“ _Presents,”_ he said, a little hard to make out but said with some kinda unholy fervour. 

“Fuck,” Bucky said, and shoved himself a little backward so he could sit up a ways, lean back against the headboard, watch Clint’s pupils dilate at how easily he was moved around. “Fuck, what did I do to deserve this?”

And there was that moment of reaction on Clint’s face, the one he wasn’t supposed to see, so Bucky took his hand away from Clint’s mouth and cupped his cheek, instead. Softened his voice the way it always wanted to be when he was speaking to Clint. 

“What did I ever do to deserve _you_?” 

“Just lucky, I guess,” Clint said, and picked up something from the bed next to Bucky, something wrapped terribly but identifiably small, and square, and box-shaped, something that dried out Bucky’s mouth with how hard he was hoping for what it’d be. 

“Wanna stay that way?” asked Clint. 


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky curls up by the window, the beanbag hissing gently as he shifts his weight, giving some kinda soundtrack to the snow gently falling outside. 

It’s an odd kinda thing, enjoying the snow falling. Memories are jumbled, but snow before this he always remembered as a threat: a threat of too cold, too stiff, too slow; a threat of ice against glass, an occluded view of a smirking face; a poor darkly-remembered threat against Steve, curled close and struggling for breath. 

He’s not sure he remembers watching snow from a place of safety, before, a place of warmth. 

Bucky startles a little, and then grins, as a heavy weight flops across his legs with a low groan. 

“Don’t believe him -” a voice from the kitchen - “he’s had plenty of kibble _and_ a pastry from Antonio’s, today.” Muffled clattering, muffled muttering, “ - think I’d never fed the - not the only one who’s been walking all goddamn day -” 

“There’s kielbasa with peppers and potatoes in the fridge for you,” he says, and grins at the happy noises, the way even the clattering sounds a little lighter. Bucky wraps his hands a little tighter around his coffee, indulgent-sweet and too much milk, and stares out at the snow that no one’s gonna force him out into, that no one’s gonna lock him up inside, that no one’s gonna make him stain with blood. 

He’s not sure he ever entirely knew that it was beautiful.


	6. Chapter 6

They managed to clear out the chimney, finally, a week ago; ten years of detritus showering down into the sheets that Bucky had insisted they put down, including a whole bunch of things that Bucky wasn’t interested in looking at too closely. It makes a difference to the room they’re in, though, having a fire gently crackling in the hearth. It’s always been one of the colder ones, acres of fields no good to block out the wind that sneaks in around the window frames; it’s on the list. They’ll get there. 

For now, they’re sprawled out together on the battered couch in the front room that doesn’t really have an official name yet. It’s waiting, just like a lot of things in this place, to be fixed again. Waiting to find out what its use will be. 

It’s okay, though. Waiting. It’s a damned good place to wait in. 

Clint’s too long for the three mismatched cushions, and he’s got his ankles crossed on one arm of the couch. Bucky’s leaning back against the other arm, one leg stretched along the back of the couch, the foot of the other resting on the floor. Clint’s resting against his chest, half asleep, the golden stubble on his chin gilded by the occasional spark of light from the embers of the fire. 

Bucky fishes his phone out of his pocket when it buzzes, looks at the message from Steve and grins, then ducks his head to press a kiss to Clint’s temple, prompting a faintly annoyed mumble that suggests Clint’s closer to sleep than is ideal right now, and that Bucky needs to start shuffling them back up the stairs. 

“Hey, baby,” he says first, a murmur that’s warmer than the fire, warmer than the room, “it’s past midnight.” 

“Santa time?” Clint mumbles, and Bucky laughs against the side of his idiot head. 

“Sure thing,” he says. “Merry Christmas.” 


	7. Chapter 7

“Aw, too bad,” Bucky says, his feet crossed on his desk, a piece of pizza held above his mouth as he attempts to capture the trailing mozzarella. “My horoscope says no.” 

The guy goes a shade of red that warns of aneurysms, and Bucky watches him with a certain amount of anticipation, but he vents his frustration through yelling instead, which is so usual as to be pedestrian. 

“…and I don’t even believe you know your goddamn zodiac sign!” the guy concludes, a little weakly in Bucky’s considered opinion. 

“Sure he does.” 

It’s the guy who’s been sitting in the waiting area, which is in the same room as Bucky’s desk because private investigation ain’t exactly a goldmine and Bucky’s not exactly winning any prizes for customer service right now. He’s been sitting there sucking down a slurpee for a few minutes, now, and honestly Bucky might’ve made more of an effort being polite to his other customer if he weren’t so eager to get him out of the way. 

Slurpee guy has the kind of bed hair that says the last thing you’ve been doing in bed is sleeping. He has sky blue eyes and the kind of freckles you want to count with your tongue. He’s got a smile like mischief incarnate worn on a mouth that Bucky wants desperately to see stretched around his dick. 

“…he does?” Bucky’s customer says, thrown a little off his stride. 

“Sure,” Slurpee guy says. “He’s that fish one, Bite-mes.” 

Bucky snorts and his customer swears at them both, grabs the envelope of money on the table and storms out. Slurpee guy comes and slides into his chair, holding out a hand that turns out to be delightfully callused against Bucky’s palm. 

“Hey,” he says, “Clint Barton. I’m a Capri-Sun, so that makes us hella compatible.” 

Bucky’s inclined to agree. 


	8. Chapter 8

Clint’s always looked damned good in a suit. 

You wouldn’t think it - he looks made for sweatpants and shirts, looks like he’d look wildly out of place at any fancy function. And it’s not as though he’s smooth and groomed and perfection itself. It’s just that the suit kinda highlights the inconsistencies against it - the golden stubble, the disordered hair, the black eye that matches the purple in his tie. 

The whole result together somehow becomes something that dries out your mouth, that makes your knees a little weak, and that’s even before he looks at Bucky and smiles. 

Clint carries all of summer in his smiles, and the warmth of it goes right to Bucky’s heart. 

“Fuck it,” he says. “I’m keeping you.” 

Steve makes an annoyed noise next to him, even as Clint’s smile widens into the mischeivous grin that originally had Bucky falling in love. 

“What did you expect?” Natasha whispers to Steve, a cooler version of Clint’s smile lighting up her face, too. “You let them write their own vows.” 


	9. Chapter 9

Bucky stopped in the doorway for a bit, slowly unbuckling his boots and enjoying the show while he was at it. Clint was mopping the kitchen and shaking his ass to some seriously easy listening jazz kinda music, the stuff played in the dullest clubs back when he’d been going out dancing. It wasn’t anything close to what Bucky’d heard Clint listening to before, and he despaired a little of the guy’s taste. 

Clint did a pretty little spin and near jumped out of his skin when he saw Bucky lurking in the doorway, and then his face creased into one of the most genuine smiles Bucky’d ever seen. Then he had a moment of horror, and dived over to his computer to slap at it, make the music stop. It was infinitely more shame than he’d displayed on the many occasions that Bucky had caught him watching porn, and it roused his curiosity more than a little. 

“What’re you doing?” he said, padding over and sliding his hands onto Clint’s hips. The blush was all kinds of distracting, adorable, and Bucky had to brush his mouth across the tops of Clint’s cheeks. 

“…Cleaning,” Clint said. 

“And I’m very proud,” Bucky told him seriously, “but how come you look li#ke I caught you dressing up in a dog suit and fuckin’ the pickle jar?” 

“That is a hell of a mental image,” Clint said. “That is - a disturbing mental image for you to just have right at the top of your head, there, is that something I should - should be worrying about, is that -” 

“Clint,” Bucky said, and Clint deflated against him. 

“‘s the Sims soundtrack,” he said, muffled against Bucky’s hair. 

“Okay,” Bucky said, dragging it out, reaching up to run his fingers across Clint’s scalp, scritching a little and loving the way it always made Clint push up against it, practically purr. “Okay, and that means - ?”

“It means that I wanted you to come home to a clean house,” Clint’s voice was kinda longsuffering now, “but motivation’s hard when you’re not glaring at me from the corner, so I was - pretending I was in a computer game and was being made to do it?” 

Clint’s brain squirrels were a weird and wonderful breed, and every inch closer Bucky got there was some new and fascinating perspective he got treated to. 

“Somehow I’m gonna work out how the hell you got me to love you this much,” he said, pressing a kiss to the side of Clint’s neck, the skin warm and pink against his lips. 

“You always make my diamond green,” Clint told him seriously. Bucky was gonna assume that was good. 


	10. Chapter 10

Natasha was, without doubt, a better private secretary than Clint had ever been. Since she had taken up the post James had been better informed about his shipping concerns than he ever had been previously, and due to her quiet advice and excellent research his business was booming. She was quiet and efficient, and were it not for the almost tangible aura of menace that surrounded her at all times James might not have noticed her presence at all. 

It was pure madness to miss the chaotic lack of organisation, the constant intrusive remarks, the slapdash appearance and the indolent sprawl of a man he had only hired because of a favour he had owed to Clint’s brother. 

Barney Barton was not a gentleman’s gentleman - was not a gentleman at all, in fact. He was a rough, uncouth sort, who had gained the reluctant admiration of a certain subset of businessmen for his relentless ambition and determination. He was successful, he was well on his way to being indecently rich, and he was a ruthless, hard-dealing bastard that James regretted to count among his acquaintances. 

It had been an unnerving prospect, owing him a favour, and James had secured his household and armed himself when walking late at night, in case of - he wasn’t quite sure. Nothing good. 

Then one morning Barton had arrived with another man in tow - a scruffy, fair-haired man who clearly had no valet to dress or shave him. His clothes were of good quality but donned without anything like due care, and his posture was appalling. He had eyes like the sea-blue reflection of sky, and a smile like the friendliest of village idiots, and a greening bruise cresting one sharply cut cheekbone. 

He was quite the most beautiful thing James had ever seen. 

That - and the smile on Barton’s face when they had agreed that James would take him into his employ - was a concern. James was discreet in his affairs, and paid good money to ensure that his proclivities remained unknown. He never patronised the same molly houses within the same sixmonth, and for the most part he settled for the company of his remaining hand. If Barton had somehow found that information, though - if Barton had learned of his preference for taller gentlemen, fair-haired and muscular - 

It didn’t bear thinking of. So James didn’t. 

And, for a time, things rattled along neatly enough. Clint was disorganised but brighter than he seemed, inappropriate at all times but capable of making James laugh harder than anyone else of his acquaintance. Occasionally James felt flashes of desire - it was impossible not to, the way Clint looked, the way Clint looked at _him -_ but for the most part he was able to keep things as professional as they might be, when dealing with someone like Clint. 

It had worked for almost a year. It had worked until a stormy night when James was working late; the rain pounded the window and the fire popped and hissed as drips made their way down the chimney. He almost didn’t hear the pounding on the door, lost amongst the echoing thunder; opening it was an instinct more than the belief that anyone waited outside. 

Naturally it was Clint. He had removed his coat and held it bundled in front of him; his hair was dripping water onto his nose, and his white shirt clung to him like a second skin. James’ mouth went immediately dry, impossible to swallow past, and it was a good half a minute before he could regain his faculties enough to usher Clint inside. 

“I’m sorry James,” Clint had said, unforgiveably familiar as always, “I didn’t know where else to go,” and he had revealed that his coat was bundled around a tiny white kitten, far too small to be away from its mother, bedraggled and sluggish and likely near death. 

James got the poor scrap some milk and placed it on a seat cushion by the fire, gently mopping the water from its fur with his cravat. When he looked up at Clint - who was kneeling by the fire, rubbing and warming his hands - the man was looking back at him with such an unmistakable expression on his face, such an undeniable warmth in his eyes, that James was quite helpless against it. He hadn’t intended to move, but it was as though some invisible force had drawn him closer to Clint, and he closed his eyes at the feel of a cool, callused hand against his cheek. His transactions in the past had never involved kissing. If they always felt so good, he would have needed for nothing else. 

James gave Clint his notice the next morning. 

He had spent the next few weeks terrified, certain that Barton would darken his doorstep and make demands in exchange for keeping James’ unsavoury secret. He was convinced that this had all been part of some dark plan. But as the weeks crawled past, as he counted off every day without Clint - each of which seemed to drag itself by, taking with it some of James’ enjoyment of life, until he was a bare and snapping shadow of himself - he realised that perhaps it had had nothing to do with Barney Barton at all. 

*

“Thank you,” he said grudgingly, as Natasha deposited her finished work on his desk. He didn’t raise his head, instead focused on Alpine - the kitten he had kept, as a reminder of something he couldn’t possibly ever forget. He was batting happily at James’ fingers, fully twice the length he had been and a happy and mischievous soul. 

“You’ll forgive me,” Natasha said, her voice low and smooth and entirely without character, for she held every part of herself close, “but when I met you I wouldn’t have expected a man with such a love of cats.” 

“A friend gave him to me,” James said, and his voice broke quite unforgiveably on the word. 

“I didn’t think you had those, either,” Natasha said, and James chuffed something that might resemble a laugh. 

“Not any more,” James said. “I was a damned fool.” And then he looked up, flushing, to see her smiling faintly. “Please forgive my language.”

“Forgiveness is not so hard to earn,” she said, “especially when the forgiver is hopelessly inclined towards it.” 

There was no question they were talking about her, any more, and James smiled faintly, only one side of his mouth quite managing the effort. 

“I would have no way to find him to ask it,” he said, and Natasha regarded him with her head on side for a moment. 

“I might,” she said. 


	11. Chapter 11

It had almost been better when he’d still been numb inside.

At the time it hadn’t seemed it - it had seemed like a sort of living hell, experiencing and learning but feeling nothing. Knowing, intellectually, that he ought to feel more than a passing interest in having found Steve, in having found an end to who - what he had been. There had been the occasional flash of - something, overwhelming and confusing and quickly pushed down under the murky water of his subconscious, where dark things swam.

He didn’t like therapy. Even when he felt nothing, even when he was still learning about what preferences were. He didn’t like the dredging of it, how it left disturbed water in its wake.

Over time, over endless sessions and Steve’s unflinching support, the water cleared, and Bucky relearned what it really was to hate. What it really was to fear. He learned regret, and he instantly regretted the learning; for a time, he went under.

It was physical in a way he hadn’t known to expect. His jaw ached with clenching, and his stomach churned. His nails bit into the palm of his hand. Sometimes he found it difficult to breathe, and it felt like there was a gaping hollow inside his chest, and that the slightest pressure would crack him open like an egg. And more than anything, there were tears.

Yet who would have thought the old man to have to much salt water in him? He cried when he was happy, and he cried when he was angry, and he cried when he was afraid. His therapist - and when he had learned hate, oh god how he had hated her - told him it was cathartic, told him about the different chemical compositions of emotional tears. Told him it would make him feel better, but that felt impossibly distant when he was hunched on the cold kitchen floor in the middle of the night, unable to see clearly enough to move, unable to take a breath that didn’t catch and hitch and stutter out of him.

“Fuck,” a voice said, low, and Bucky expected that there would be retreating footsteps, that eventually there would be Steve, sleep warm and barely coherent and bringing along the rush of guilt that always accompanied him. Instead, the person knelt by his side, not touching, but close enough to feel a little warmth.

“Hey,” the man said, “hey, are you okay if I touch you?”

Bucky hid his face and nodded into his cupped hands, figured if he could get a hand back to his room at least he wouldn’t be waking Steve, at least he wouldn’t have the dark circles under his eyes to dwell on.

A helpful hand wasn’t what he got, though.

Even Steve was careful with him. Touched lightly and retreated too easy. This man just slung an arm across Bucky’s shoulders and hauled him into his side, moulding him against him and resting his cheek against Bucky’s head. He shushed Bucky gently, mindless white noise, and Bucky turned into him more until they were inextricably tangled, the warmth of shared body heat competing against cold water and almost, gradually, starting to win.

It hurt. It hurt and it healed as it hurt, and Bucky curled his hand into fabric and clung tightly in case anything would make it stop.

“Yeah, I know,” the man said, soft and rumbling in his chest, low and intimate in the gently lightening darkness, “I’m not going anywhere, I swear.”

Eventually - half asleep and not far off dreaming - the tears slowed and stopped. Bucky loosened his grip, but the guy didn’t stop running a hand gently up and down his arm, the calluses on his hand catching a little on the ridged metal.

“Better?”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s voice sounded thick, rough. “Thanks.”

“I know how it goes.” The guy shifted, and Bucky tensed, but he was getting more comfortable, not moving away. “Nice to meet you, by the way,” he said. “I’m Clint.”


	12. Chapter 12

Clint starts calling them all pet names on a Sunday morning. 

“Hey baby,” he says, low and easy, sweatpants slung low across his hips and bruises climbing the line of his spine, “you want sugar in your coffee today?” 

“No,” Tony says from the doorway, and watches in amusement as Clint blanches, whirls around like a spinning top. “Black as my reputation, if you would.” 

“Sure thing,” Clint says, and then tacks on - “sweetheart,” awkward and insincere. 

Obviously they all know that Clint and Bucky are going at it. Tony has been forced to talk Steve down from aggressive shovel talks a few times, now, pointing out how goddamn happy Bucky looks. 

He does, too. On any other guy it’d be sickening, but they’ve all read the Soldier’s files. Natasha said at the time it was for preparedness, but Tony always figured it was in large part also so they know how to take care. 

But, for what are probably stupid-ass reasons, Bucky and Clint aren’t ready to be open about it yet, so rather than reveal he was talking to someone else Clint starts laying it on thick with the sweetness to all of them. Some people have individual names - Wanda is Pickle, and Natasha is something in Russian that sounds very soft, the way he says it, but probably means something deadly given the way she doesn’t prickle. Other people get a welter of generic endearments, and it’s a little adorable how Bruce blushes a little when Clint calls him darlin’. 

Bucky ends up looking a little disgruntled about it, actually. Like he wants to save all Clint’s endearments up for himself, and his little grouchy racoon face makes Tony want to smoosh his cheeks and call him peanut. 

(He does it once. He will most definitely not be doing it again.) 

It’s inevitable, of course. Clint’s doing post-battle press, only because he was far enough away from the explosion not to be hustled into a decontamination shower with everybody else. Bucky’s there too - his arm got caught in the blast zone, but he’s helpfully wipe-clean - and Clint calls him baby in front of the cameras. 

They watch the footage back later, because Natasha says that the rabbit-in-headlights Clint gets is freaking hilarious, how he pales and fumbles and doesn’t seem to know what to say. 

If Tony had been there, he would’ve cut through the tension; he would’ve made a joke or explained the team bonding, or pulled the focus straight back to himself. 

But then, if Tony had been there, they would’ve missed out on the wide and disbelieving grin brightening up Clint’s face, after Bucky sweeps Clint into a movie star kiss, live on national TV. 


	13. Chapter 13

Clint’s slouched in his chair, one leg hooked over the arm of it, spinning an arrow between his fingers. He’s got no kinda healing powers; unlike Bucky, he gets to wear the bruises Bucky gave him like jewelry, decorating the line of his neck. The smirk he’s wearing tips beautiful over into the most unrepentantly sexy thing Bucky’s ever seen, and he’s having a hard time caring what the hell Tony’s ranting about now. 

Still, Steve’s in the room, and climbing across the table to lay one on Clint would end with so much bitching that it’s not worth the half hour head start on what they’re sure as hell doing as soon as this meeting is done. 

He huffs out an annoyed breath and tunes back in to what Tony’s saying. 

“ - _straight through_ _reinforced glass_. Which, first Barton, we are testing your DNA again, because I refuse to believe anyone can do that who is a regular human, that’s not natural, I was already suspicious about your draw weight but this is… And also, what the _hell_ , you never miss. That’s your thing, your schtick, you made me put it on your _business_ cards, are you a Skrull?” 

He pales, and skitters back a little from the table. 

“ _Are_ you a - Steve, is Barton a Skrull?” 

“Gotta wonder why you’d think Steve would know,” Bucky says. “And, for your information, we were testing his limits. What would make him miss. We figured it’d be a good thing to know, for strategic reasons.” 

Clint sends a quick flickering wink across the table at him, as good as a blown kiss, and the things Bucky wants to do to him - jeez, he shouldn’t be capable of this gently fluttering blush. 

“So you’ve found out what makes Barton miss, great, want to share with the team?” 

Clint smiles, slow and satisfied and making no secret of it, and Steve shoots a wide-eyed glance at Bucky, slaps a hand over his eyes when he sees the matching grin on his face. 

“Coming in Bucky’s mouth,” Clint says, lingering over it, like he’s doing his damndest to make Steve’s head explode. 


	14. Chapter 14

Clint bends over - awkward like a fuckin’ tree - and rests his chin on Bucky’s shoulder, scruff scraping at Bucky’s neck, arms wrapped around his waist. Bucky is utterly surrounded in warmth, in Clint, and it’s a kind of bliss that he never thought to look for. Never thought he’d get to have.

After a minute he clears his throat and says - a little thicker than he’d like - “Get off me, you sweaty dick.”

“You love my sweaty dick,” Clint says, and presses a hard kiss to Bucky’s jaw while he’s still making an appalled face over that one.

“You guys are gross,” Sam says, matter of fact, not like a complaint but like a universal truth, and Bucky shrugs and accepts it, grabbing Clint’s hand before he can get too far away. Clint has hands like sandpaper, and Bucky loves to feel them all over him, and throws away any hand lotion that makes its way into the house.

“I like this one,” Sam decides. The goat he’s pointing at is brown and white, and a little smaller than the others, and has the unmistakable glint of the devil in its eyes. “I wanna call it Falcon Jr.”

“Like I want your mini-me on my farm,” Bucky says, scowling, even though he knows they’ll end up buying it, along with half the goddamn herd if Clint’s soppy expression is anything to go buy.

“Look,” Clint says, running his long rough finger soft as anything down a little black goat’s nose, “doesn’t she look like a Beatrice?”

“Dunno about her, but you sure as hell look like an idiot,” he says, and tangles their fingers inextricably together.


	15. Chapter 15

Bucky wakes up, not moving except for his eyelids, scanning the room. The back of the couch is a frustration, cutting off his view, but he finds what he’s looking for at the other side of the room; a tall shape outlined against the difference in light through the bathroom doorway.

He knows it. He didn’t know, before, how well he knows it.

“Clint?” He says, and the shape startles a little, then steps forward into the little light that’s afforded from streetlights through slatted blinds. Clint hooks one hand behind his neck, scruffing through hair that’s already a disaster, and Bucky knows that rueful smile even in the half-light. “You okay?”

“Just - checking that you’re still here,” he says, voice scratchy and uneven from something that doesn’t sound like sleep.

Bucky heaves himself up, kicking away a tangle of blankets - more than he went to sleep with, maybe, and he wonders how many times Clint’s been down to check.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and Clint huffs out a strained laugh.

“Sure,” he says. “Sorry.” And he starts back up the metal staircase, and Bucky - fuck it, it’s the middle of the night, 3am decisions don’t have to count in the light of day. Bucky follows him without speaking, and straightens out the blankets on Clint’s bed before he’ll let him get into it.

“You tucking me in?” Clint asks, a decent attempt at amused, and then his expression softens into something a little lost and a lot, a whole lot grateful as Bucky flips back the blankets and gets in the other side.

“You don’t have to -“ Clint begins, fragile in the darkness, and Bucky slides over and hauls Clint back against his chest. They don’t fit, except for all the ways that they do.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky says.


	16. Chapter 16

Bucky ran his hand gently down the back of Clint’s arm, finding another lump of putty and picking at it gently. Clint chewed on his lip in the way he did when he was working not to wince; break the guy’s leg and he’d tell you jokes, but stub his toe and he’d turn all sad and defenceless. It was one of the weirdnesses that Bucky’d worked out; he had a collection. He had a constantly evolving list. 

“I’ve gotta assume there’s a - like an antidote to this stuff, right? Something that’ll make it melt away?” 

“Kate’s got it,” Clint said, shrugging Bucky off - mostly unsuccessfully, but then he wasn’t trying very hard. He cupped his hand over the putty Bucky’d been picking at, his lower lip sticking out just a little, and Bucky used the opportunity to scratch at the putty that was sticking to Clint’s fingers. 

“And where’s Kate?” 

Clint made a face. “Probably not in this dimension.” 

Bucky sighed, and left off picking at putty to cup Clint’s face, so close he was almost going cross-eyed with it, distinct shapes blurring into gold and tan and blue. 

“You’re an idiot,” he said, and Clint jerked a little backward, tugging Bucky with him where they were stuck together almost all down their fronts. It hadn’t quite reached the point where Clint, frustrated, suggested cutting their damned clothes off them; Bucky was kinda hoping they’d get there by another route. 

“Hey,” he said, “easy,” and threaded his fingers through Clint’s hair. Clint sighed and dropped his head onto Bucky’s shoulder, forehead tucked in to the curve of his neck. And sure, it was forced proximity, but there were ways and ways of being stuck together, right? Bucky grinned a little and scratched at Clint’s scalp. 

“Not doing so great at impressing you, huh?” Clint said, and Bucky couldn’t help a laugh. 

“You tryin’, sweetheart?” 

“Pretty much always,” Clint said, a little wistful with it. 

“I’m in awe,” Bucky said, flat and kinda deadpan but with a little twist to it, where his heart was beating hard enough to pull his voice out of true. “You got me on my knees.” 

Clint snorted. 

“I ain’t lying,” Bucky said, soft enough only someone this close would ever be trusted to hear it. 

Clint was still for a long moment, his fingers carefully curling into Buck’s shirt at his hip. It went on for breaths and beats longer than Bucky was comfortable with, and he was half laughing and half filled with dread when he spoke.

“You gonna get up here?”

“I would give anything,” Clint said, frustration thick through his voice, “but I’m stuck to your goddamn shoulder.” 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: Implied character death**

It’s a hell of a way to meet someone, to have him walk up to you, grab you by the ears and plant one on you like he’s dying for it, like he’s loved you all your life and longer. Clint doesn’t even get a word out, just sinks into the kiss like a conversation, but not one where you’ve just met. This is a shorthand that’s years in the making; he’s a little out of step, maybe, but he’s catching up fast. He’s left blinking and breathless when the guy pulls away, and this time Clint gets the chance to take a look at him - steel blue eyes, beautiful jaw line, long dark hair. Clint breathes out a smile. 

“Hey.” 

“Oh fuck,” the guy says, “Clint,” and brushes kisses against his cheekbones and his temples and the line of his chin like there’s no place on him he wants to leave untouched. 

“So,” Steve says, somewhere distant, “this is Bucky.”

“Hi Bucky,” Clint says, and grins dizzily down into his eyes. 

*

Clint’s never had perfect before. Clint didn’t know what shape perfect was, but Bucky’s living with him before the end of the week. 

It’s not all like it was when they met. Like he said, it’s like a shorthand - sniping arguments that feel months at least in the making, teasing comments, an easy intimacy that Clint’s never had with another human soul in his life. Bucky just seems to - to _know_ things. Clint’s favourite restaurant in New York, how he takes his coffee, the best way to get him to bite down on a scream. It makes sense in every way but the actual, but Clint’s okay not knowing the answers when everything’s going this good. He’s been in love before but not like this. 

Not like this. 

So it doesn’t exactly surprise him when things skid sideways, one day, after they kick Doom’s ass out of Manhattan. Everyone’s mostly fine but Clint got hit with some shrapnel and his eyebrow’s been split in two, the bad way, the kinda way he knows is gonna scar. Bucky goes stark white when he sees it - he’s always fussed when Clint’s been injured, but never quite like this. He kinda… folds into himself, goes quiet and angry and sad in ways that Clint doesn’t know how to touch. He’d worry more if Bucky wasn’t still cuddled all tight up against his chest every night, clinging to Clint like he’s worried he’s going somewhere. 

He wakes up most mornings with Bucky’s thumb ghosting gently across his new scar. 

*

Bucky zip ties Clint to a pipe and locks him in a closet when there’s word that the week’s Big Bad has the time stone. It takes Clint a full seven minutes to get out, and when he does he’s gotta make his way to the battle on goddamn public transit and he’s spitting mad when he gets on comms. 

“Go home,” Bucky tells him, tight and angry and kind of hoarse, and when Clint just swears at him he - he _begs_. Over comms, where anyone on the damned team can hear. It shakes Clint, tugs all the anger out from under him, and he stands up to look for Bucky down on the ground. 

Something flashes behind Clint, something opens in the sky and tears a hole right through the roof so concrete is cascading out from under his feet. He spins around and sees a window into some other reality, mud and blood and khaki green, and Bucky screams a denial. 

“Shit,” Clint says, ‘cos he’s backing up but there’s no way he can be fast enough, and there’s nowhere left to go. 

“Don’t save me,” Bucky shouts, his voice wrecked and torn jagged with tears, “whatever the fuck happens, Clint, _promise_ me you’ll leave me to fucking die.” 

“I love you,” Clint says, as the last of the roof slides out from underneath him and he drops towards somewhere that couldn’t be more else. 

He doesn’t promise anything at all. 


	18. Chapter 18

Tony walks in and gives them an odd look where they’re all curled up on the couch together. Clint’s mindlessly watching Dog Cops - he’s seen this episode half a million times already, but he’s tired and a little headachey with the way the air is promising a storm and more than anything he doesn’t want to think. Bucky is - not exactly sleeping, not yet, but he’s curled on his side with his knees hitched up and his arm hanging off the edge of the couch, and he’s breathing heavy and slow like sleep is definitely an option that’s edging nearer by the second. He’s got his head in Clint’s lap and Clint is combing gently through his hair, smoothing it away from his face, catching against Bucky’s stubble and letting his fingers trail across warm skin. Another reason he’s watching something mindless - how in the hell is he supposed to think past this?

“You know we fixed it, right?” Tony says, and Clint makes a face at him, ‘cos he’s got his aids dialed down low, which means that Tony’s talking loud enough for Bucky to pick up. And maybe he doesn’t want Bucky getting self-conscious, or moving just yet. 

“You know,” Tony says, moving his mouth a little more obviously like he thinks that’s gonna _help_ , “we fixed it? The Big Bad is banished, the spells are done, Bucky Barnes is no longer a cat.” 

“I know,” Clint says, and he doesn’t say any more, ‘cos he can feel the traitorous pink creeping up to clash with his hearing aids, and Bucky’s _not_ asleep. Clint’s not entirely sure he has the words to circle around this, not when the subject is like Rome and every road leads straight through. 

He doesn’t stop moving his fingers, though, shuffling through silk strands, ‘cos Bucky’s discovered conditioner and he loves it in the intense way that he loves all hedonistic things; the way he loves chocolate and throw pillows and curling up as near as dammit to Clint’s lap. 

“I just -” Tony starts again, and Bucky - Bucky _hisses_. Tony instantly backs off two paces, his eyes wide, and Clint near enough jumps out of his skin. Bucky curls a hand under his thigh like he’s determined to keep him in place, like the way cats knead laps with the gentle threat of claws. It’s enough - just about - to keep Clint’s arousal at bay, although the way Bucky’s fingers are curling up to brush against his inner thigh, that ain’t gonna last him long. 

“Maybe he learned a couple things,” Clint says, and Tony raises his hands, palm out, and backs away. 

“Maybe I did,” Bucky says, low and intent, and turns his face so he can rub it against Clint’s thigh, mouth a little open and breath hot through Clint’s sweatpants, a little like the way cats say _mine_. 


	19. Chapter 19

He kissed with a joy and abandonment that Bucky had rarely experienced before, his kiss curving in line with his smile and almost feeling like it was pulling Bucky’s mouth up with it, in an expression he was sure he hadn’t worn since his return from the war. The lantern light pulled gold sparks from his hair, and the warmth of the stables was nothing compared to the warmth of his calloused hands. 

“Barton,” he said, belated, pulling his mouth away - only for the man to seize on his indifferently tied neckcloth and tug it loose, replacing it with his mouth and a gentle scrape of teeth that ran through Bucky like wild fire. “You’re Barton.” 

“I’m Clint _,”_ he insisted, and let his hand fall to the placket of Bucky’s breeches, his hand curving against the material, shaping itself to Bucky’s helpless stand and making him groan low in his throat. Clint’s mouth curled back into that irresistible grin, his stubborn nature for a moment forgotten, and he gave a firm and determined stroke that had Bucky’s head knocking back against the wall behind him. “And it is my _very_ great pleasure to meet you.” 

Barton unfastened Bucky’s breeches deftly, pressing forward into another of those drugging kisses as his hand curled once more, this time around Bucky’s naked flesh. Bucky slid his hand into Barton’s golden hair, refusing to let the man pull away until he had pressed more helpless kisses against his mouth, his jaw, the skin in front of his ear. He had not had his fill - was not sure it was possible to have his fill - but he allowed Barton to pull away, then. 

“It was my understanding that you were engaged, Barton,” he said, his voice breathless and irrefutably affected. 

There was a glimpse of an expression before Barton ducked his head; Bucky would have to make a study of the man to come close to being able to read it. 

“It’s _Clint_ ,” he said again, his face falling back into stubborn lines, “and to hell with my fiance, I want to suck your prick.” 


	20. Chapter 20

Clint adjusted his tie nervously, brushing down the lapels of his suit and almost destroying the flower that was pinned there. It perfectly complemented his tie, the charcoal gray of his suit, and when he took a quick look in the mirror he couldn’t help but think he actually looked pretty good. 

He hadn’t even managed to ruin his hair yet. It was unnerving. 

He fished his phone out from under a pile of boutonnière off-cuts and carefully brushed away the petals before biting his lip and sending a text. 

_r u sure?_

The door opened a moment or two later, but it was Natasha who popped her head through. 

“Don’t,” was all she said, but it kinda made him feel better all the same. They’d had this discussion a couple hundred times over the past few years - _don’t do this to yourself Clint, don’t sabotage this, don’t ruin the best thing in your life_ \- but today Clint also took it to mean that he shouldn’t forget the look on Bucky’s face when he’d _asked_. 

It wasn’t exactly Clint’s fault he’d been unsure at the beginning; they hadn’t exactly started out well. He’d seen Bucky across the room at some swanky event thrown by some big name in the criminal underworld, and had known him immediately to be as much of a fraud as he was. Bucky had tossed him a grin, disappeared from view, and reappeared ten minutes later with a plate of canapes and a gun that he pressed against Clint’s side. Five minutes after _that_ they’d been running for their lives, a USB stick tucked under Clint’s cummerbund, and it’d been three weeks later (three weeks of hijinks and laughter and _really_ good sex) before Clint had thought to wonder whether it was more than just mild to moderate coercion, with a sprinkling of abduction thrown in. 

“Ready?” Natasha asked, and Clint took a deep breath and followed her out, walking up between the neat rows of chairs to where Bucky stood, just as distractingly beautiful as he’d been three years before, and with a look in his eyes that Clint was a little afraid to name. 

He grinned when Clint stepped up to stand next to him, in front of their assembled friends, and leaned in close. 

“Hey,” he said, exactly like three years before, at the start of the best goddamned adventure of Clint’s entire life, “just play along.” 


	21. Chapter 21

Bucky’s not used to being his much shorter than the men he fucks, and his usual moves are getting him nowhere. The guy - a little sloppy, but not drunk; hell of a dancer; hell of a goddamn body - laughs into Bucky’s mouth. He’s leaned up against the brick wall of an alley, just dark enough that mostly he’s outlines, glinting eyes and teeth. It’s a fuckin’ waste of a beautiful face, but Bucky will take it so long as he keeps ducking down to kiss him. 

“You need me to sit down?” he says, and he lifts his hand to tangle in Bucky’s hair. And Bucky knows that’s what he’s doing, he knows, he just - that flickering motion out of the corner of his eye, he can’t - 

Bucky grabs the guy’s wrist, uses the guy’s encroaching drunkenness against him, spins him around and has him pinned up against the wall in a second, his grip wrapped tight and pinning the guy’s hand to the middle of his back. 

“Fuck,” Bucky says, and the guy echoes the fricative like it’s pulled out of him, and he doesn’t sound like that’s a bad thing, either. There’s something about the tension in his stillness; he could get out of the hold without breaking a sweat, Bucky’s pretty sure, but he’s holding himself still and at Bucky’s mercy, which is wreaking fuckin’ havoc on Bucky’s libido. 

“Maybe you don’t get to sit down,” Bucky growls, and the guy writhes a little back against him, shoves his ass against Bucky like he’s desperate for it. “How ‘bout I make it so you can’t sit down for a week?” 

“If that’s a threat you’re gonna have to try harder,” the guy says, and his voice is thick and kinda wrecked, and he’s got his forehead pressed against his free arm so that even with one hand Bucky can keep him in place. It’s a voluntary submission that has Bucky hard as fuckin’ iron, and he rocks forward against the guy’s ass, makes him groan low in his throat. 

“Not a threat,” he says. “A promise.” 


	22. Chapter 22

“Hey,” Bucky said, but the dog didn’t listen, just kept nosing around the apartment like it had some kinda claim to it. It’d followed him home and he hadn’t noticed when it’d followed him in through the front door of the building, but when he reached his floor it had come bounding out of the elevator at Mrs Patel’s heels. He’d considered shutting it out but it’d muscled right through the door of his apartment behind him, and its sandy fur and dopey expression had somehow disguised right up until that point the sheer damned size of the thing. He’d’ve thought wolf if it wasn’t the middle of New York, if the dog didn’t stare up at him with heart eyes and an idiot grin. 

Bucky crouched down in front of the dog, took careful hold of it by the sides of its face and dodged backwards to avoid its long pink tongue. 

“Hey,” he said. “Sit.” 

It planted itself on its shaggy behind, tail sweeping across the floor rhythmically. It was a hell of a handsome dog, intelligence behind its eyes even with the idiot grin. It was friendly, too - had just about tripped Bucky over when it was following him home, crowding a little too close at every opportunity. 

“What the hell am I supposed to do with you, huh?” he asked, helpless. The lease didn’t allow pets, and Steve’s allergies were even more of a concern; even with the dog just standing in the living room Bucky was gonna have to vaccuum the place before Steve got home. 

The dog seemed to take this as an invitation and lunged to its feet, sinking down onto its elbows and then springing back up with a bark, clearly inviting Bucky to play. He felt a reluctant grin easing his mouth up at the corners, and he would’ve given about anything to be able to do anything except what he was gonna have to do, which was work out some kinda leash arrangement and drag it right back downstairs. 

“Sorry, buddy,” he said, glad there was no one around to hear how wistful his voice sounded. “You’re gonna have to go.” He reached forward but the dog darted out of his reach. “C’mon,” Bucky said, cajoling, “you were all over me earlier.” The dog ducked backwards again, and Bucky figured for a moment that he’d cornered it in the corner by the kitchen door but the dog reared up and put its weight on the handle, doing some kinda weird acrobatic movement that hauled the door open so it could crash inside. 

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky said, and chased it in, his prosthetic catching on the spice rack and spilling out a couple of the jars as he cornered too fast. Shit - now he had to contend with a dog _and_ broken fucking glass, not to mention the cloud of pepper that was billowing out at ground level. 

The dog backed away from the spreading spice, snorted through its nose, sneezed twice with an expression of astonishment on its face and then - 

\- and then, somehow, in place of the big blond dog there was a big blond dude, naked and startled and sprawled on Bucky’s kitchen floor. 


	23. Chapter 23

Bucky dropped his keys on the table by the door and shrugged his jacket off, hanging it on the coat rack because he was determined to keep setting an example in the hopes that someday Clint would pick up what he was throwing down. Literally. He kicked off his shoes and nudged them vaguely into alignment, circled the end of the couch - ducked down to press a kiss against the top of Clint’s head where he was balled up just in front of the couch, knees tucked up to his chest and face pressed against them - and set the coffee maker running. The groceries weren’t gonna unpack themselves so he started off with those, getting stuff into the freezer first and then trying to work out where things were best put. He was kinda working on a system, but it wasn’t like he was used to this either, and it was still a little bit trial and error. 

“Hey, Lucky,” he said, as the dog came up and nosed at the back of his legs, then circled around to lean against him from the front. “I’m getting to it.” Not Lucky’s dishes, though - even on the worst days, those were filled, ‘cos Clint took responsibilities seriously and loved Lucky more than just about anything on the planet. Bucky placed a couple of cereal boxes in the tall thin cupboard by the fridge and then left the half-full grocery bag and gave in to Lucky’s shoving. 

It was kinda cold on the floor, so Bucky grabbed a blanket on his way down, wrapped it around Clint as a starting point and leaned up against his side. 

“You good here?” he said, soft. “Need some help, maybe?” 

Clint let out a breath that wasn’t quite steady, but didn’t say anything just yet. Bucky wound an arm around him and pulled him in tighter so he could press a kiss to Clint’s temple, then scrambled back to his feet to get the rest of the food put away. The coffee maker was burbling happily, and he filled one of Clint’s Hawkeye mugs and decided today was definitely a sugar day. They were needed, sometimes. 

Bucky deposited both their mugs on the coffee table - on the coasters Nat had brought them, ‘cos sometimes cleaning a couple coasters by the sink was easier than wiping a whole table, and sometimes that was all you could do - and settled himself back down next to Clint again. 

“’m sorry,” Clint said, soft and worn around the edges, like something taken out and looked at over and over again until all meanings were blurred with it. Bucky scooched in closer and laid his head on Clint’s shoulder, ‘cos the propping up had never ever been one way. 

“You got Lucky fed and watered and walked, looks like,” he said, “and you’re out of bed and dressed - you did good. And more than that, you gotta know you made me smile every time I thought of you today, sweetheart, and that’s all I’m ever gonna need.” 


	24. Chapter 24

“Psst, hey!”

Bucky jerked his head around towards the door but there was no one there; the echoing gym was as empty as it had been when he’d walked in here, half an hour ago. He’d intended to start up one of the machines they have now, run the hell away from his nightmares, but he hadn’t yet managed to convince himself that he deserved to break the silence. 

Maybe that was why the nightmares were catching up. 

“Hey, asshole,” the voice said again, and it didn’t - it didn’t sound like the nightmares usually sounded, although the casual insult seemed about right. “Hey, down here!”

He spun on his heel, and this time caught sight of a crooked vent cover at ground level, that as he watched opened fully with a loud clang. The guy that spilled out of it was covered in dust and grime and bandages, and was wearing a hospital gown and kind of a manic grin. 

“You seen Bruce?” the guy said. He wasn’t one of the Avengers that Bucky had already met, which by default made him either Hawkeye or Falcon, and he was reasonably sure that Falcon had a beard. 

“What?” 

“Bruce,” the guy said, and sure he was tall - if distinctly lopsided - but hovering one hand at waist height as demonstration was an exaggeration to say the least. “Rumpled, anxious, so clever it hurts, you seen him? I need someone to punch me.” 

“Gonna guess he’s asleep,” Bucky said after a long and thoughtful moment, and the guy deflated. 

“Aaw, circadian rhythms, no,” he said. Then he brightened a little. “You’re an asshole!” he said, cheerful, and spread his hands a little like he was inviting applause. 

“Sure,” Bucky said. “But you said that already.” 

“Okay,” the guy said, and brushed cobwebs out of his hair, thoughtfully. Turned out underneath it was blond, rather than prematurely gray. “Okay, so your costume sucks, you look like the lost member of an emo band.” He squinted and then rubbed the back of his neck. “Nah, I can’t keep that up, you’re hot as fuck. Um -” 

“What the hell,” Bucky said, then darted forward as the guy visibly swayed on his feet, ducking under his arm and wrapping his own around the guy’s back, trying to ignore the way his gown gaped open all down the line of his spine. 

“Oh, hi, you’re even prettier up close.” 

Bucky had to say the same thing was true for the guy he was holding upright, although it was also true that his pupils had eaten up all but the thinnest ring of sky-blue, and it was pretty damned clear the guy was stoned out of his mind. 

“You’re Clint, right?” 

“I’m Clint,” he agreed. “And you’re a - hmm. Dick?” 

“I’m not the one scattering insults,” he said. “You got a problem?” 

“Ugh,” Clint said, and abruptly quit bothering to hold himself upright, letting himself slump fully against Bucky, his head resting against Bucky’s shoulder. “I wanna sleep,” he whined. “Last time I got a decent night was when that Doombot punched me out, and the nurses refuse to give me any more sedatives.” 

“…you’re a goddamned mess, Clint,” Bucky said, and Clint nodded pathetically against his shoulder. Bucky sighed and managed - somehow, with an abundance of long limbs going every which way - to scoop the guy up into his arms. 

“Wow,” he said, “gettin’ fresh!” 

“Yeah, well, apparently I’m an asshole,” Bucky said, and carried Clint back to his own room if only ‘cos it was the only place he knew for sure had a bed. 

How that translated to waking up with his arm slung over a muscled body, and Clint Barton’s naked ass pressed up against his dick he couldn’t say, but it was a hell of a way to get some sleep. 


	25. Chapter 25

Awareness shivers over Clint, goosebumps prickling down his arms and his legs like the trailing touch of frozen fingers. Frost decorates the insides of the windows with delicate white ferns, and the hardwood floor is hidden by a curling carpet of freezing mist. 

It’s possible that eventually he’ll die of it. 

He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt and sweatpants, and he kinda wishes now that he’d thought to add socks. It’d be a lie to say he can’t feel his toes; they’re a whispering numbness that’s spreading slowly up through the bones of his feet, pushing pain ahead of it. 

The metaphors - all that shit about cold as the grave, cold as death, cold as a crypt - they’re wrong. Death isn’t cold; from the little he can remember of those five minutes, that stretched out around him until they filled the world, death is no temperature, and no sensation, no sound or light or smell. Death is an expanse of experiencing without experience, an endless emptiness, and he things maybe he brought a little of it back with him. It’s been hard to readjust, to remember how to talk to people and fill the spaces around him with life and noise and anything that isn’t emptiness. 

Death isn’t cold, but Lonely is. 

And yet, somehow, Lonely is not the same as alone. Somehow, Clint gets to keep the space around him and yet still have this caring through cold, ice-gray eyes and winter-pale skin and a frozen presence that coalesces in the corner of his room. Gets to curl himself into arms that inadvertently pull the warmth from him, held fast and loved with the overwhelming weight of an avalanche, covering over and ploughing through everything else in his life until there is only this. 

“Hey Bucky,” Clint says, the words curling out of him in clouds of white departing warmth, making a cold space inside him to welcome Bucky in. 


	26. Chapter 26

It’s hard not to have an embarrassing story about the day you met your soulmate, when the universe has seen fit to glue the both of you together just as soon as there’s skin to skin contact. 

Twenty four hours without being able to separate, as a kinda crash course in at the deep end test to see whether you’re compatible or not, ‘cos soulmates only work on so many levels and nurture has a hell of a lot to answer for. 

So Clint - he shoulda known better, basically. He shoulda known better, but he’s in his thirties and given up hope, and there’s also the thing where he has one hundred percent touched Bucky Barnes before this - he’s just apparently touched him flesh to metal, which he hadn’t even noticed up until now. 

So they’re mid-fight, and Clint has reached out to pull Bucky to his feet, which is fine ‘cos it was left-handed, only Bucky stands up too quick and they’re stuck nose to nose for twenty four hours. Which, again, would be _fine_ , except Dr goddamn Doom is attempting to take over the downtown area and they’re supposed to be in the middle of a fight. 

“Fuck,” Clint says, breath washing into Bucky’s mouth, and he twists his body in an unlikely way and shoots a Doombot off-centre and one-eyed. Bucky makes a soft noise that is all kinds of intriguing, and then grabs Clint and pulls them both behind a low wall that used to be the frontage of a shop. 

“You okay?” he asks Bucky, and Bucky laughs, and the sound of it low and intimate is a lot to deal with, that’s all. 

“It was hard enough to cope with when you were halfway across a battlefield,” Bucky says, the kinda low that isn’t supposed to be heard only Clint’s so close now he can’t help it. 

“Only reason I keep making shots is I can do it without looking,” Clint says back, and there’s no way Bucky can’t see the pink he’s going, even if their features are kinda blurring with how close they are. “You think it’s easy to look away from you?” 


	27. Chapter 27

Clint drags the needle across Bucky’s skin, a cross-stitch of cat-scratch lines, contrails of blood and ink pulled in its wake. It’s an interesting pain, thin and shallow and voluntary, and he’s close to deciding he likes it. 

There’s no sound aside from the buzzing of the needle and their careful breathing, Bucky’s catching occasionally when lines cross each other and reawaken barely faded pain. When he’d introduced himself Clint had asked if that was okay - the other rooms leak heavy metal and driving beats, but Clint explained that he didn’t hear so good and wanted to be sure he’d hear if Bucky needed to tap out. 

“I mean,” he’d said, “if you need the music to complete the hardcore experience…” and Bucky had laughed, ‘cos Clint is wearing a lilac shirt with a unicorn and a narwhal having a sword fight on it, all cute expressions and curving lines, and the plugs in his earlobes are a beautiful amethyst. 

Bucky’s got good feelings about the purple and blue and pink sweatband around his wrist. 

“Pretty sure you’re hard enough for me,” he’d said, and tugged at the bottom of Clint’s shirt, and then his ears had caught up with his mouth and he’d flushed a brilliant red, blistering heat in a hostile takeover of his face. Clint had grinned, wide and delighted, but he hadn’t capitalised on the opening Bucky had left him, hadn’t said anything to tease. 

Bucky’s grateful, and he’s grateful for the quiet, which is peaceful rather than awkward. Clint’s focused attention on Bucky’s shoulder, on the lines he’s pressing into his skin, is positive in a way that Bucky hasn’t felt in a while. Mostly he hasn’t liked being looked at since he got back from his tour, but that’s because of where people tend to look, the expressions they tend to wear when they’re doing it. Whatever else there is - amusement, and concentration, and the barest touch of heat - there’s not an inch of pity on Clint’s face, wasn’t even when Bucky first took off his shirt. It’s like how you don’t notice the gradual and building burn of the sun until you hit the ease of cool water, the gentle blue of Clint’s eyes. 

Bucky closes his eyes and relaxes back against the table, breathing deep like he could almost fall asleep here. 

“Endorphins hitting, huh?” Clint says quietly, and maybe that’s what this is. Maybe it’s something else, though, something unique to the guy leaning over him, and Bucky lets his mouth curl into a smile. 


	28. Chapter 28

Clint didn’t move, what with the sprained ankle and all, and Bucky didn’t lift his head to look where the hell he was going, so there was a slow and inevitable collision. Clint quickly lifted a hand to stop Bucky from bouncing off and hitting the floor - he seemed kinda dazed, although whether that was concussion or just post-battle fatigue, Clint honestly couldn’t tell. They wound up in a half hug, Clint’s hand wrapped around the back of Bucky’s neck, Bucky’s forehead resting against his shoulder so Clint couldn’t see any indication of how he felt about this turn of events. 

“Buck?” Steve said, a little uncertain. “You okay over there?” 

Bucky mumbled something unintelligible, but lifted his hand to grab the back of Clint’s shirt, so Clint smiled over at Steve with the side of his face that wasn’t stinging from all the gravel embedded in it. 

“He’ll be fine,” Clint said. “I’ll take responsibility.” 

Bucky’s mumbling was a little grumpier, this time, and Clint pushed his hand up a little so he could scritch his fingers through the guy’s hair. He was gonna blame painkillers, if anyone asked, but in truth it was something he’d wanted to do for a while now. The way Bucky melted against him, the way he let Clint support his warm weight suggested that he didn’t have too big a problem with it. 

“You know I’m not moving with this ankle, right?” Clint said, just about loud enough for Bucky to hear. They were leaned up against the kitchen counter, and Clint’s crutch was a trip-hazard on the floor from where he’d been trying to hook some Cheetos closer. “We’re pretty much stuck here forever unless you get yourself going.” 

“Mmph,” Bucky said, and then turned his head a little; Clint could just about see the tiny curve of a tiny smile. “I’m good here.” 


	29. Chapter 29

“Scoot,” Clint says.

Bucky’s like a crocodile, mostly submerged under the water apart from his eyes and - okay, less reptilian - his hair. He’s shoved it all up on top of his head, tied in place with a rubber band, and Clint’s told him about this. Natasha, too, actually - they were clearly brought up without proper respect for hair care.

At least he’s got the bubbles right - there are mountains of them, and the room smells warm and damp and sharply citrus, and Clint can almost feel the aches and pains easing out of him already. He grabs a proper, cotton-wrapped hair tie off the bathroom counter and wraps it around his wrist before tugging off his shirt. There’s a gently shifting splash of water from the tub; Bucky’s paying attention. It’d be nice if it was the abs but it’s more likely the huge black bruise across Clint’s side that’s grabbed him.

“It’ll heal,” Clint says. “Scoot.”

Bucky surfaces a little more, scowling, and shifts himself enough forward that Clint can carefully clamber into the tub behind him. It takes longer than it should - his knee’s particularly reluctant to bend the right way - but eventually he’s got them situated just right, and he can set to carefully untangling the brown rubber from Bucky’s hair.

“Medics?” Bucky says, and Clint scoffs. It warms something inside him that he knows Bucky well enough that he can see his eye roll even from behind his head. “There’s ice packs in the freezer,” he says. Clint knows this, which means it’s an order. He’s okay with that.

Finally the band comes loose and Clint flicks it directly into the trash can across the room. He carefully runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, detangling it; Bucky settles back against him ‘cos he’s always like a cat in this. He takes care, though, not to rest too much weight against Clint’s side, and Clint figures the best love is always unspoken, and carefully ties Bucky’s hair - with a tie that won’t hurt like hell when it comes out - away from his face.


	30. Chapter 30

When Bucky pushes the guy up against the door and kisses him he tastes like cheap beer and chapped lips, stubble scratching at Bucky’s cheeks, no trace of the beautiful softness of his lyrics in the movement of his tongue. The night air bites at the back of Bucky’s neck and the cheap wood of the door from the alleyway bites at his knuckles where his hands are curled behind the guy’s neck. 

Clint, that’s his name, and he’s tall and a little awkward and he sings like campfire smoke and whiskey, and the cowboy hat is a cheap prop that makes him look halfway to idiot and halfway out of all of Bucky’s dreams. It’s flipped up behind his head now, made ridiculous by their kissing, and the guy’s too busy to rescue it with his hands tangled into Bucky’s hair. 

“Shit, your voice,” Bucky says, rocking his hips forward against the guy’s thighs, and there’s campfire smoke curled through the guy’s moaning, too, like they’re only half a step sideways from being somewhere a million miles from anywhere with only flickering light and each other. Jesus, he’d give anything; he’d give anything to be away from this town he grew up in, where everyone knows his business and everyone’s looking to judge. “I swear to god,” he says, “I coulda dropped to my knees right there, during the very first song.” 

“I swear to god,” Clint says, looking flushed and tousled and beautiful in the light that sneaks back from the street, “your face makes me wanna write a million more of ‘em.” 


	31. Chapter 31

Bucky’s never been sure how to feel about the words on his forearm. His soulmate, he tells Steve, is either crazy or deluded; who the hell goes around telling people they love ‘em, right off the bat? How the hell is someone like that gonna be perfect for Bucky, more to the point?

He guesses he’s lucky that he doesn’t have ‘Thanks’, or ‘Where’s the milk?’ - he’s making coffee for the sleep-deprived masses while he works on his post-grad degree, and people aren’t exactly imaginative when they’re that tired. 

Bucky’s favourites, though, are the people that are pre-verbal in the pre-morning light. The ones that just blink at Sam, kinda despairing, while he tries to tease an order out of them. There’s one guy who always comes in with bed hair and bags under his eyes that match up with the purple hoodie he always wears. He couldn’t seem to coordinate past pointing, the first time, first at the biggest cup they served and next at the coffee machine, his expression a mingling of despairing and hopeful that had tugged impossibly at Bucky’s heart. 

Sam’s the one who speaks to the customers, because Sam’s the one of them that can keep a civil tongue in his head. Steve invested a little extra when he was remodeling to get machines that could be operated with Bucky’s prosthetic; Sam told Steve that that was what had originally made him fall in love, which Bucky would hate for gross inspiration porn if Sam wasn’t such an equal opportunities asshole to him the rest of the damned time. Bucky’s not much of a people person, and Sam can fake polite with the best of them, so it’s an arrangement that works for them both. 

The only time that Bucky regrets being stuck putting together the orders, though, is when the purple guy comes in. He still hasn’t said a word to either of them but he’s always got a beautiful smile for Bucky, the kind of smile that fetches up a fizzing grin all the way from Bucky’s belly in return, making him blush and duck behind the brim of his ball-cap, wishing his hair wasn’t tied in a knot at the back of his neck so he could hide. 

It’s the time he sees the guy talking to his dog, though, that’s what seals it for him. The guy always leaves his dog tied up outside, even though he’s got a little service dog vest and would be welcome inside. _I’m sorry_ , the guy signs, at his goddamned _dog_ , _I’ll be back fast fast, I love you_ , and Bucky just about melts into a puddle behind the counter. He can’t even look up long enough to drink down the sight of the guy’s smile, and the whole day feels a little grayer for it. 

The next day when Purple comes in, Bucky puts his coffee together as usual - or at least, pours his cup full, which is as much as Purple ever asks of him - and pushes it across the counter with the wrapped dog treat he’d picked up on the way in, from the bodega on the corner. 

“For your dog,” he says, and signs the last word, and the guy’s eyes shine, surprised and delighted and his whole face is lit up with his smile. 

“Oh man I love you,” he says, and Bucky’s heart twists in his chest, and hitches himself up on the counter so he can lean across it and kiss his soulmate, soft and sweet and somehow perfect after all. 


	32. Chapter 32

There’s a trail of M&Ms across the floor, and it’d be great if Clint could say he has too much shame to eat them - especially since he lives with a dog and all - but that just isn’t the case. He scoops up the last couple that are sitting on the windowsill and reflects that at least, now Bucky’s living here, the floor gets cleaned by one of them every now and again. 

It’s windy outside, the kind of day that drags clouds across the sky in flickering stop-motion, and Bucky’s hair is streaming out sideways. Clint immediately regrets climbing out onto the fire escape with him - his hoodie is in the bedroom, and therefore essentially no longer exists. He sits down and scooches over, huddling into Bucky’s side, and gets an arm wrapped around him immediately. It’s not much, but for now it’s enough. 

“I knew I shouldn’t’ve shown you ET,” he says, and Bucky smirks. 

“Ouch,” he says, and touches a frigid metal finger to the middle of Clint’s chest. 

Clint hunches around it and shoves his head into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, sheltering himself from the wind, but there’s something about the cool air - it feels a little like he’s taking the first proper breaths he’s managed all day. 

“Why’d you lure me out here?” he asks, and Bucky squeezes him a little closer the way he always does when he tells Clint the truth, ‘cos certain kinds of truths leave bruises. 

“Today’s a bad day,” he says, “and you’re ducking and covering and makin’ it worse.” 

Clint opens his mouth. 

Closes it again. 

“You think if you stay outta the way,” Bucky says, “stay quiet and still and safe inside you’re gonna ride through it, but all you’re doing is making an echo chamber of your own head, and half of what it’s thinking right now is all kinds of bullshit.” 

Air escapes Clint like it’s been punched out of him, and Bucky’s arm tightens a little more. 

“I love you,” Bucky says, and if he said it any other way than matter-of-fact Clint wouldn’t be able to believe him. “And because I love you I’m gonna lure you out on the fire escape for five minutes every day to get a little sun and a little air and to get the wind to blow the idiot things your brain tells you right out of your head.” 

“Fuck,” Clint says.

Bucky brings his hand up to cradle Clint’s head; he pulls him a little closer so he can press a kiss to Clint’s too long unwashed hair. 

“Coulda lied to me,” Clint mutters into his chest. 

“What kinda love would that be?” Bucky asks him, and then presses a bright cold spot of cold to Clint’s chest again, right over his heart. 

“Ouch,” Clint says. 


	33. Chapter 33

The door shuts loudly and there’s the distant muttering of a deep voice, the skitter of claws across hardwood that are arrested abruptly by a low exclamation and then diverted from the foot of the stairs. 

(This is a good sign.)

A jingle as Lucky’s leash is hung up by the door, on the hook that Bucky installed there soon after he moved in. A couple of distant thumps - accompanied by low vicious words - that suggest Clint did the wise thing for once and stole Bucky’s boots rather than voyage out into the edges of a hurricane in canvas shoes. 

Without getting out from under the blankets Bucky wriggles out of his shirt, balling it up and flinging it towards the window like that will do anything to affect the gentle whistling of a draught around the elderly frame. 

The distant muttering gets louder as Clint makes his way up the stairs, and Bucky kicks off his boxers and shoves them out from the blankets and off the side of the bed just as the door opens, letting in a brief rush of colder air before he shuts it behind him again. 

“Cold cold cold,” he chants softly as he shuffles across the floor, his way lit by streetlights through shitty curtains, item number twenty three on their list. He’s not trying to wake Bucky up yet, but he’d made a point of leaving Lucky downstairs, and - fuck, is that the most domestic reason ever to start getting hard? Bucky shifts his hips just a little, conflicted, as he listens to Clint pull off his shirt and almost trip over his sweatpants before letting in a gust of cold as he lifts the blankets. 

Bucky makes a protesting noise that gets him Clint’s arms around him, Clint’s slow-hardening dick against his ass. Clint’s nose is a point of cold tracing down the line of Bucky’s neck, accompanied by soft kisses that have Bucky rocking back a little, impatient, even as Clint’s hands slide down his front. 

“Hey beautiful,” Clint mutters, mouth moving against his scarred shoulder, “it is the fuckin’ Arctic out there, I’m never leaving again.” 

“Y’know,” Bucky says, cutting himself off with a low groan as Clint’s hand curls around him, “I think I can live with that.” 


	34. Chapter 34

Steve folded his arms across his chest, Captain America Jaw jutting proudly, and scowled down at the pair of them. 

It was Wednesday, which was mostly film night, for whichever of their motley crew were present and otherwise unoccupied. Tonight’s offering was Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, at Clint’s insistence, who didn’t really get the Kevin Costner thing but had had _feelings_ about a young Christian Slater. 

Thing was, as big of a screen as you shoved into a room, there were always gonna be seating options that were better than others, and Clint and Bucky were currently sprawled across the entire length of the world’s comfiest couch. Clint was leaning back against Bucky’s chest, his head on his shoulder, secretly in heaven because this was likely the closest he was gonna get to what he actually wanted. 

“Asking you to move your ass is not homophobic,” Steve said, and Clint sniggered and bumped his forehead against Bucky’s jaw, which was just as steely as Steve’s was. 

“Sounds to me a lot like you’re denying our love,” Bucky said, and that kinda wiped the smile off Clint’s face. He rallied, winding his fingers between Bucky’s and hauling on a grin, but his heart wasn’t really in it. 

“Yeah, Steve,” he said, “quit being a hater.” 

“You know I’d be as happy for you as the next guy,” Steve said, rolling his eyes, “but the day Bucky actually opens his mouth and -” 

Clint didn’t hear any more because all of a sudden he was on his ass on the floor, Bucky having surged out from underneath him so he could slap metal fingers across Steve’s mouth. 

And Clint got that things had changed - that things were a lot more open now, even if they’d always existed - but seeing Bucky go off like that at someone else even hinting that he could want someone like Clint… 

Yeah, it stung. 

“Sit where you want,” he said, and wandered over to grab a beer before dragging the huge green beanbag over a little more central and settling his ass into place. 

They were well into the movie, Alan Rickman sneering from behind a white mask, when the beans all shifted under Clint’s ass as a warm weight settled onto the beanbag next to him. He took a quick glance sideways at Bucky’s profile. 

“This thing ain’t really built for two,” he said. 

Bucky made a low, thoughtful noise, and turned a little more into Clint, settling more firmly against him. 

“You sure?” he said, and then there were fingers against Clint’s chin, tilting him just right so that Bucky could brush a kiss like a question against his mouth. Clint was pretty sure that the sound he made in response was more than a little undignified, but that didn’t prevent Bucky from pulling on a slow-growing grin and leaning in again, settling into it this time, stealing all the breath outta Clint with a kiss that was slow and deep and full of feeling. 

“No PDAs!” Tony yelled from the couch. 

Bucky pulled away, and smiled, and brushed his thumb across Clint’s lips.

“Sounds a lot to me like you’re denying our love,” he said, staring down into Clint’s eyes.


	35. Chapter 35

Bucky knocks on the door and it creaks open a little under his fist. Anywhere else that’d be a concern, but this is Clint’s building, and no one who lives in it would ever let a damned thing happen to him. He pushed the door the rest of the way open and there’s a distant scrabbling noise as Lucky heaves himself to his feet and then the dog is bouncing over, licking at Bucky’s hand.

A good quarter of the living room is gone. Instead there’s a complicated arrangement of blankets - overwhelmingly purple and pink - draped from the kitchen island, over strategically placed stools, a stepladder and half the couch.

Bucky carefully unbuckles his boots - they’re ankle deep in muddy slush - and puts them by the door before making his way over to a flap that might be the door, Lucky following along at his heels.

“If I knock is the whole damn thing coming down?” He asks, and a high, happy voice shrieks his name. It’s gotta be hell on Clint’s ears, and he hears the high whistle of feedback as Clint fiddles with his aids. After a second two heads pop out of the tent flap, both tow-headed and freckled and grinning.

“Password!” Cassie demands. Bucky taps his lips in exaggerated thought.

“You come up with it?” He asks, “Or was it your uncle?”

“We shared,” she says imperiously. “Sharing is caring.” That’s a new attitude from her, and it sure as hell hadn’t come from her dad. Bucky looks at the proud look on Clint’s face and can’t quite suppress a soft smile.

“Okay, then I know it starts with purple,” he says, and Cassie starts giggling immediately. “Hmm. Purple… princess?”

“No!”

“Purple - robot.” Apparently this is the height of hilarity, and Bucky’s never gonna fathom four year old humour. He watches, bemused, and catches Clint subtly signing something from behind Cassie’s head.

“Purple pineapple,” he says, and she crows in delight and crawls back inside the huge fort, which he takes as an invitation to join them. It seems a lot smaller on the inside, close and warm, Elsa’s face upside down on the walls like some bizarre cave painting.

“We’re having a nope day,” Clint says, shuffling over and settling in. “You mind doing a whole poop-load of nothing?”

Bucky touches his cheek, and feels his face folding into an expression he’d be embarrassed by if he saw it, unbearably soft.

“Even when it’s nothing,” he says, soft under Cassie’s chattering, “everythin’s better with you.”


	36. Chapter 36

Bucky had bad days. They weren’t often, not anymore, but they made him hunch in on himself and work on disappearing, and Clint wasn’t willing to let that stand. 

See, Bucky was the thing he most looked forward to. Not anything Bucky did or said, or any particular activity they did together, just - just the fact of Bucky made life better. Even when he wasn’t around Clint, or when they only saw each other in passing, the fact that he existed somewhere occasionally struck Clint and made him grin. 

It wasn’t really something Clint wanted to name, because naming things put expectations on them and gave them a shape that they were supposed to be, neither of which sounded like they would end up going well for Clint. He was okay with just allowing the feeling to exist, but it seemed… somehow fundamentally wrong that Bucky didn’t feel about himself the way that Clint felt about him. 

It was kind of a tough one to deal with, though. Clint didn’t want to impose, didn’t want to make Bucky think that there was a way he was supposed to feel. Of all the things that Clint had noticed that were important to Bucky now - bubble baths, and the softest possible socks, and naps, to name just a few - freedom to be and say and feel how he wanted was right at the top of the list. He just felt like maybe the bad days were days where Bucky didn’t value himself, so Clint worked at valuing Bucky extra hard to make up for it. 

It didn’t always mean spending time with Bucky. A lot of the time it didn’t, because Bucky sometimes found people exhausting, and Clint knew he wasn’t always the easiest person to be around. Sometimes it meant… making sure the coffee pot was full, and there was leftover pizza in the fridge, and the television - and the couch in front of it - was free. Sometimes it meant giving Steve tickets to a hockey game because he ‘didn’t have time to go’. Sometimes it meant breaking the doorbell to Bucky’s rooms in the tower and baiting Steve into a competition over throwing the shield. 

Sometimes, though, it meant giving something to focus on that wasn’t the echochamber inside his head, and right now Clint was sitting on the couch with Bucky leaning back against his chest with his head tipped forward as he focused fiercely on what he was doing. 

He was surprisingly delicate with the tiny brush. Clint had to keep his fingernails short for shooting, so the surface area wasn’t huge, but Bucky was painting beautifully even stripes of purple without getting any on the skin of his thumb. 

“Thanks, man,” Clint said, quiet and satisfied; Bucky just kinda hummed in response, concentrating too hard to make much room for Clint in his consciousness. But he was unarguably and intensely present - was, without question, _here_ \- and even if that was all Clint got he’d argue with anyone that it was more than enough.


	37. Chapter 37

Clint had a pretty chronic case of foot in mouth disease, but he was doing his best to re-brand it by exhibiting absolutely no shame at all. He went with the accidental truths that slipped out of him like they had always been what he’d intended, and honestly there was something kinda freeing about it. 

Tony came out of his apartment just before some kinda big fancy gala and did a spin for them, clearly waiting for accolades. 

“I’m not gonna lie, I would hit that,” Clint said, not particularly muffled even with the pizza in his mouth. 

“And that is exactly the reaction I was going for,” Tony said, with a not-so-subtle sidelong look at Steve, and he even deigned to slap Clint’s hand in a high-five as he passed, despite the risk of cheese-grease. 

In a meeting, with them all gathered around the conference room table, Sam asked for perspectives on something and Clint cheerfully shrugged. 

“Gotta tell you,” he said, “I was paying more attention to Steve’s ass,” which earned him another of Tony’s high-fives and disrupted the meeting for a good five minutes, which in Clint’s book was emphatically a win. 

One morning - even if, according to the clock, only barely - Clint was leaning against the kitchen counter with his ankles crossed, munching on some toast, when Bucky came in. Usually Bucky was a proponent of the Clint Barton fashion school: jeans or sweatpants, hooded sweaters, dumb shirts. So Clint couldn’t help giving a low whistle when he saw the brushed and booted and suited version, Bucky fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt like he didn’t know what to do with them. 

“Holy shit,” Clint said, “actual hottest Avenger alert,” and he wasn’t expecting the way Bucky’s eyes snapped to his, startled, and he sure as hell wasn’t prepared for the slow flush that painted Bucky’s cheeks. 

“Fuck off, Barton,” Bucky said, but he was pretty as a picture with that pink in his cheeks and Clint was genuinely bemused by how much that was doing it for him. 

“Jesus Christ you’re kinda beautiful,” Clint said, and Bucky’s glare, turned out, was kinda undermined when he couldn’t hide his blush. 

“Fuck _off_ , Barton,” he said, and marched out of the kitchen, and Clint stared after him and forgot to get back to his toast until it was long past cold. 

He was worse than usual, after that. His tongue was tripping over itself to pay compliments to Bucky, slipping out of him at the worst possible times. The constant rejection was a little wearing, but that had never been enough to put him off, and honestly there was a little part of his soul now that was made up of a scrapbook filled with memories of Bucky blushing, surrounded by applique hearts. 

“I need you to stop,” Bucky said once, low and emphatic. “You - it ain’t fair, and it ain’t kind.” 

“I’m sorry,” Clint said, honest as he always was, “but I have kind of a truth problem and I am honestly not sure I can.” 

He did his best after that, though. Slapped his hand over his mouth, stuffed pizza in there instead, in extreme cases - when he was pining for the flush on Bucky’s cheeks - he forced himself to leave the room. 

A couple weeks later Bruce was stomping around the kitchen, ‘cos someone had eaten the last of the leftover vegetarian pizza and he’d been counting on it for lunch. It wasn’t a code green but Clint was a little worried about the flatware, to be honest, and he was relieved when Bruce emerged. 

“Clint?” he said, and Clint shrugged. 

“Not it,” which made Bruce scowl and march off, muttering something about killing Tony. 

“Hey, I got an interrogation,” Bucky protested, folding his arms across his chest. “How come he just believes you?” 

“Clint has a problem with the truth,” Natasha said, flipping idly through a magazine. 

“Exactly, so -” 

“In that he is utterly incapable of telling a lie.” 

Clint grinned, sheepish, and rubbed the back of his neck, ‘cos he could feel Bucky looking at him and he was gonna have to leave the room again. 

“Well, this has been real,” he said, and shoved himself upright, jogging for the corridor before anything else could make its way out of his mouth. He wasn’t expecting to be stopped just outside the doorway, Bucky’s metal fingers cold against his wrist. 

“Truth problem, huh?” he said, and Clint nodded dumbly, because Bucky had his hair tied back and it turned out the tips of his ears were the first things to start to blush. 

Bucky smiled, slow and truthful, his cheekbones dusted with pink. 

“Tell me I’m pretty again,” he said. 


	38. Chapter 38

Clint stretched out every long line of him, the sheets whispering against his back. It wasn’t often he got the good kind of sleep; he couldn’t remember exactly what he’d been dreaming about, but he knew it’d been good. Every part of him was rumpled with a gentle lassitude, and he had to sit on the edge of the bed for a second, rubbing his face and yawning, before he was certain he could make his legs bear his weight. 

The windows had been eased a little open, just enough of a breeze to tease around his ankles, and there was the noise of traffic and the distant mutter of voices from outside, audible even through his aids. Turned out your mood did a lot to filter that stuff; usually Clint’d be wishing them an unspecified death, but instead he was feeling generally pretty benevolent today. 

It might have had something to do with the coffee, of course, which smelled dark and rich and better quality than what he usually had. He took a couple of deep breaths that turned into helpless yawning, the way that too much sleep always made you want to curl back into your bed. He felt tactile, open and a little defenceless, like sleeping right had stripped away all the armor he’d worked so long on building. 

It was still early enough to be a little chilled, and he snagged the big purple blanket off the back of the couch, wrapping it around his shoulders and shoving his nose against it, happily taking in the scent of laundry detergent and shuffling towards the kitchen. 

He didn’t stop until he was curled in close, bent down to wrap his arms and blanket around strong shoulders, his nose buried and breathing sleep deep into the crook of his neck. There was a moment of relaxation against him, and then a tension that did what the morning so far hadn’t managed to do and woke Clint the hell up. 

“Oh shit,” he said, against Bucky’s neck, into the strands of his hair, his mouth moving like kisses and his mind moving like molasses, slowly linking together the bits that were reality and the bits that had only been him dreaming, wanting helpless-hard until it wove itself into something that felt like truth. 

Something that he _wanted_ to be truth, when truth was actually pizza and the offer of a couch, movies and laughter and stupid, helpless pining that was years long. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, mortified, still workin’ on moving backwards and showing his face. “I’m so sorry, Buck, I think I was dreaming.” 

He wasn’t prepared for the hand that lifted to tangle in his hair, pushed down with the barest pressure to discourage Clint from lifting his head. 

“‘S okay,” Bucky said, soft and thoughtful, “you can take your time waking up.” 


	39. Chapter 39

“…recommend a couple companies for renters’ insurance, if you need any advice.” Clint leaned back against the counter as the couple wandered around opening the cupboards; they’d got over their wariness of Bucky once they’d seen the size of the room, the staircase up to the second half-floor. 

It hadn’t exactly been his intention to drag the Winter Soldier round an apartment viewing with him, but Bucky was always a little antsy when Steve was away, and he tended to duckling around after Clint even on his best days. It was a beautiful kind of torture, honestly, ‘cos consciously articulating the thought that he was waiting until Bucky was more together to try and make a move made Clint feel all kinds of skeevy, but there was no question that was what he was trying to do. 

More accurately, he was keeping himself available - not that he was interested in any other prospects - for when Bucky felt ready to make a move himself. Or at least to indicate that moves would not be unwelcome, wherever they might originate. 

Clint rolled his eyes at himself; he was getting lost in a tangle of clauses that weren’t what he should be focusing on, right now. He was supposed to be convincing these guys to sign on the dotted line in as short a time as possible, so that he could coax Bucky to the Houdini Museum that he’d been reading about online. He was pretty sure Bucky would get a kick out of it - of all the things that Clint had found out about Bucky, the fact that he was an enormous dork was his favourite. 

“The kitchen’s been pretty thoroughly updated,” Clint said, when the couple got close enough, staring thoughtfully at the oven. “All picked out for energy efficiency and safety. Speaking of safety,” he continued, jerking his head so they’d follow him over to the door, “we’ve got the latest in security, with a camera at the door that lets you view visitors on your phone and buzz them in from wherever you are. There’s more about the alarm system, smoke detectors and such in the packet I sent out to you.” Clint smiled, working hard not to rush them. “You want to go have a poke around upstairs?”

He crossed over to where Bucky was standing, leaning against the window frame with his arms folded across his chest. 

“I’m sorry, man,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t give in to the constant urge to touch. He was the same in art galleries; Natasha despaired. “Gimme five more minutes and I’ll tell them I’ve got another showing scheduled, all right?” 

Bucky cocked his head, regarding Clint with something in his eyes that was difficult to read. 

“Take your time,” he said. “Tell ‘em some more about the insurance, or how you got the fire escapes checked out.” 

Clint winced, hunching his shoulders a little. “Ugh, I know, I’m -” 

“I wish I was kidding,” Bucky cut in, ducked his head a little and bit his lip. He unfolded his arms and looked to be debating with himself for a second before he rested one hand on Clint’s shoulder, pressing down a little to try and make him relax, close enough to his neck that there was just the faintest brush of skin on skin. It was a fucking embarrassment, how close Clint was to whining at that barest touch. 

“What?” he said, bewildered and dazed and wildly, incoherently hopeful. 

“Responsibility looks good on you,” Bucky said, eyes hot, and traced his thumb down the side of Clint’s neck. 


	40. Chapter 40

Bucky startled into being when the front door opened.

He’d been encouraging the spiders, when he was - around, and the realtor made a face as she flipped on the light switch and brushed a trailing strand away from her face.

“Naturally we’d have the whole place cleaned before you moved in,” she said, visibly pinning a smile into place before she turned around, walking backwards to make space for the two others who entered behind her. The first was a woman, short and graceful and fiercely red-headed, with a lightness to her tread that suggested she could dance, or kick someone’s ass, or maybe do both at the same time. She looked around with sharp eyes, clearly unbothered by the multitude of webs, and her bland expression was just as clearly assumed as the realtor’s.

“Naturally,” she said, smooth and regionless.

The man who followed her in was her opposite in just about every way. He was excessively tall, well-muscled, slouching in sweatpants and a crumpled shirt. He didn’t walk with anything like grace but - Bucky narrowed his eyes - he moved just as lightly as the woman did, as though grace could be adopted if the situation called for it. He had a friendly face, weatherbeaten and lived in, and butterfly stitches held one of his eyebrows together, a bruise shading into being around the corresponding eye.

The woman was beautiful. The man was interesting in ways Bucky hadn’t known he remembered. It was an uncomfortable feeling and he stepped back, pressing against the brick wall behind him and through it, settling out on the fire escape where the sunlight could bleed through his edges.

He never manifested when the realtors were around. Confirmation would bring ghost hunters, and tourists, and priests; suspicions just resulted in a place that was hard to shift, and the occasional viewing never did much harm.

Something tugged at his attention. He blinked, and shook his head, and then without warning he was in the dimness of the bedroom, dust dancing through the thin slices of light that cut past the blinds.

It was empty of furniture now, all of his possessions and his photos tossed on the trash heap; he avoided the room as much as he could.

The realtor was nowhere to be seen; the woman was standing with her head lowered and her fists clenched, a feeling like static emanating from her as she took slow deep breaths.

“James?” she said, after a moment, and Bucky startled backwards, looking between her and where the man lounged against the wall. “James, are you here?”

The man sighed explosively and reached up to pull something out of his ear, tucking it carefully in his pocket.

“Yo,” he said, “Jim, Jimmy, Jimbo, you gonna pick up the phone?”

“What?” Bucky breathed, and the man tilted his head, squinting as though through a headache.

“Keep it up, Nat, I can almost - hey James, Jamie, you wanna say that again?”

No one had ever heard him when he hadn’t meant to be heard. James felt a jolt of fear run through him - something he hadn’t felt since he’d had whatever glands produced the adrenaline for it - and he walked over to where the man stood, circling wide around the prickling aura emanating from the woman. The man didn’t react, just stood there looking in front of him, smiling faintly like his face had just worn into that shape. His pale eyes were fixed somewhere over Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky startled when he spoke, his voice low and crooning.

“Jiminy Cricket, you gonna say hi?”

“It’s Bucky,” he said, right into the guy’s ear, and the guy winced and ducked sideways like he was avoiding a blow.

“Ow fuck,” he said, “we got him, and his presence is goddamn strong,” and he stood and grinned at the woman, wiping away the blood dribbling from his nose with the side of his hand.


	41. Chapter 41

“Lose the finger guns,” Bucky said, and Clint made a noise of protest but let his hands fall to his sides. “Put your left hand in your pocket,” he said, and then reconsidered. “Nah, it looks like you’re overcompensating. Just hook your thumb in there, maybe.” 

Clint was grinning at him now, and Bucky scowled and snapped a couple shots. He might be an asshole but he looked damned good doing it, and what else was the point of the exercise?

He lowered the camera, fumbling with the menu for a second before he worked out how to flip back through the shots. 

Honestly, they were fucking devastating. 

They’d taken a few shots framed in the window, a couple in colour but more in black and white. Bucky had asked him to explain the season five finale of Dog Cops, because that was when it had all gone a bit Philip K. Dick, with three separate timelines and the android copy of Detective Rex. In the pictures Clint’s brow was a little furrowed, intent, and he’d been gesturing with his hands. 

The pictures were _fucking devastating._ Bucky had to work to keep his thumb away from the button that’d delete them all. 

“Are we done?” Clint whined, leaning back on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island and tipping his head back. Bucky almost fucked up the settings, flipping so quickly back to camera mode so he could capture the sprawled length of Clint. 

He looked - Jesus, he looked like sin, and there was no way these pictures were going anywhere near the goddamn internet. 

“We’re done,” Bucky said and Clint lifted his head,rumpled and delighted and grinning adorably, his freckles catching the light. Bucky clicked the shutter with a sense of resignation, and then with some satisfaction added, “here. We’re done _here_.” 

Even pouting, the guy looked beautiful. 

“Why the hell is this taking so long?” Clint complained. “The site asked for one profile picture, and we’ve definitely got that. It’s not like my face is gonna win any prizes, and you’ve still got to help me write a profile.” 

“The site,” Bucky said, and cursed Tony yet again, “lets you have up to ten pictures, and you want people to get a decent idea of who you are. Which is why we’re headed to the basement,” he said, and watched Clint’s eyes light up. 

Clint had been working on the basement of his building for a while, now. It sprawled past the confines of the building, extending some way under the street, and he’d paid the owners of the next building along to expand some into theirs too. 

As well as the room full of washers and dryers there was a pretty comprehensive gym for the residents’ use. Cecilia was in there when they headed down, the steady tinny thump from her headphones competing with the whirr of the stationary bike. 

The crowning glory of the basement though was mostly just for Clint’s use. It wasn’t that he’da minded sharing, just that no one much save Katie-Kate had use for a top-line archery range. 

Bucky set a couple of the hanging targets swinging idly. 

“They let you upload videos?” he asked, and Clint snorted. 

“Jesus, no one wants to hear me talk.” 

Bucky shrugged, because it was safer than talking just then, a hundred different protests crowding over his tongue in a bid to force themselves out. 

“Shut up and get your damned bow,” was what he settled on, and he had to force himself to capture Clint’s beautiful grin, hating that it was gonna be for someone else. 

*

Clint shooting was beautiful. No surprises that - even with Bucky’s lack of artistic talent - the photographs were incredible, especially the couple where Clint had insisted on taking off his shirt. 

There was one - black and white and shades of grey - where Clint had been teasing Bucky about how long he’d been taking over a shot. His back muscles were defined, the bow held at seemingly effortless draw, and there was a glit of a wicked smile over his shoulder at Bucky, mischief in every line of his face. If Bucky helped him upload it to the dating site it would guarantee contact from every single person that saw it; there was no way Bucky was letting it see the light of day. 

“Okay,” Clint said, coming over and wiping a towel roughly across his face before snagging his shirt to pull it back on. “We going with some kinda profile now?” He smiled slightly, self-deprecating. “The photos better be good, ‘cos I hae no idea what to say. ‘Mostly deaf disaster archer, occasionally saves the world. Loves dogs,’” he said, and snorted. “They’ll come running.” 

“Hey,” Bucky said, setting the camera down on the seat of a rowing machine and circling his fingers around Clint’s wrist. “Quit it. They’re gonna love you.” 

“I don’t want you lying on it,” Clint said, a half-joking warning, and Bucky rolled his eyes. 

“What in hell makes you think I’d need to? We’re gonna tell ‘em you’re athletic and energetic, brave and kind.” Bucky swallowed, mouth a little dry. “We’re gonna talk about how you work to look after everyone around you ‘cos you got a heart the size of Texas, even if you don’t see it yourself. 

Clint had quit trying to tug away now and was just standing there, looking at Bucky. Bucky didn’t want to think about what he could likely see. 

“We’re gonna talkin about you bein’ smart,” Bucky said, fingers tightening a little as Clint made a sound of protest, “and how you could likely make a statue laugh.

“Bucky,” Clint said, soft, and Bucky looked down at his fingers against Clint’s skin, ‘cos he couldn’t look at the guy’s face.

“Maybe we should mention how goddamn easy it is to fall -” Bucky started, but he was cut off by Clint’s fingers tipping up his chin, Clint’s mouth firm and hot and all-encompassing against his. 


	42. Chapter 42

Bucky sank deeper into the couch and glowered across the room, his fingernail ticking gently against the metal arm he had wrapped across his chest. 

At first glance, everything woulda seemed fine. The sun was pouring in through the floor to ceiling windows, only a couple clouds floating across the endless blue. It was in the middle of the morning, the light still crisp from waking, and there was a whole day filled with potential ahead. Bucky had been sitting with a book, somewhere between reading and basking, and contemplating grabbing a frisbee and dragging Clint and Lucky to the park a little later, maybe buying Clint a popsicle ‘cos he was a masochist like that. Instead he was fighting the urge to storm across the living room and commit violence, only holding onto his temper by the weakest of threads. 

Green was not his colour; jealousy had never looked good on him. 

There was a quiet little chirp, and Bucky looked up at Clint’s face just in time to see him melting at that, the softest of smiles curling his lips. He was sitting on the armchair placed at right angles to the couch, his coffee unregarded on the coffee table and steaming only faintly now. In his lap was a beautiful black cat, long-haired and elegant, and it was purring loud enough almost to vibrate the couch Bucky was sitting on. 

Bucky’d be purring too. Clint’s big hand stroked and curled around the cat, and the way her eyes closed with every movement it was clear he was getting all the good spots. She was arching her back into him, so unlike her usual behaviour, and there was a quiet delight shining out of Clint at that, too. 

The cat blinked open large hazel eyes and stared at Bucky, something undeniably smug in her expression. 

_I’m gonna kill you,_ Bucky mouthed, and there was no question she rolled her eyes even as Clint made a noise of faint outrage. 

“Hey,” he said, “no threatening Natasha.” 

“We threaten each other all the time,” Bucky protested, and Clint scowled. 

“Yeah, but usually she can defend herself.” 

“She still can,” Bucky said grouchily. The bloody lines down his arm had healed, now, but she had done a number on him before he’d managed to haul her out, terrified and livid, from under that dumpster. 

“Still,” Clint said, and scratched under her chin. Natasha pressed into it, then shot another look over at Bucky, looking amused more than anything. There was maybe an edge of challenge to her, especially when she rubbed herself against Clint’s hand, marking him as hers. 

Bucky growled and stood up, and Natasha’s tail flipped Clint in the nose as she made a dash for it; Bucky could almost hear her cackling as she went. 

“Aaw,” Clint said, disappointed, and Bucky stomped over to sprawl at Clint’s feet, muscling his shoulders between Clint’s legs until he could rest his head against Clint’s thigh. 

There was a long silence, and then the tentative brush of fingers against Bucky’s hair. 

“My turn,” Bucky said, smug. 


	43. Chapter 43

“Oh fuck,” said Clint, as soon as he’d got his helmet off, “oh fuck, I didn’t like that,” and he collapsed to the floor of the airlock with a clatter, a sprawl of limbs that took up more of the small space than was really going to spare. 

Bucky was leaning against one of the walls, his face white tinged with a little gray and his jaw clenched as tightly as his hands were, thick gloves apparently no impediment as his arms hung at his sides. He looked a little like he was gonna be sick; he looked more than a little like he was gonna be sick, and Clint registered the thought that he probably ought to move out of the splash zone but didn’t have nearly the structural integrity to follow through. 

“You are a pair of fucking idiots,” Tony said, his tone changing abruptly as the faceplate swung open, “and I should’ve left both of you to die.” He, too, was white as a goddamn sheet, and his dark eyes looked haunted, and Clint owed him one hell of a goddamn apology for this. He opened his mouth to get started, but there was a clang of metal on metal as Tony released the door, shoving his way out and stomping off down the corridor. 

It was quiet, at least. 

“Ffffuck,” Clint breathed out, staring up at the ceiling. His heart was still trying to beat its way out of his chest, not so much a delayed reaction as a delayed realisation that he was safe now, that he wasn’t going to die. The moment he’d fumbled at the line that connected him to the ship - the moment that he’d decided that the limited thrusters he had available to him in his EVA suit would have to goddamn do - that was gonna stay with him. In the middle of the night, most likely, the early hours of the morning, accompanied by the coldest of sweats. 

“What the fuck were you thinking,” Bucky said, not even enough intonation to pass for a question, because they were probably both pretty clear that he hadn’t been. 

Clint shrugged awkwardly. He stuck with the ceiling, ‘cos he didn’t much want to look at Bucky’s face.

Apparently Bucky wasn’t okay with that. He took a couple of steps forward, looking down at Clint, and Clint gave in and hauled himself into a seated position, leaning back against one of the walls. 

“What the fuck,” Bucky said, and Clint had kinda thought that all the stifled emotion was anger, but it sounded - when his voice broke a little past the fricative - a hell of a lot more like fear. 

“Your line broke,” Clint said, and stopped there because he didn’t - he didn’t really have more words than that. Bucky’s line had broken, and he had slid way too fuckin’ quickly out of reach, and Clint hadn’t even thought. Clint hadn’t been able to think past the shrill denial that filled up his head like air flooding into an airlock, because Bucky was like breathing in that he was fucking essential to Clint’s existence. Which was a hell of a revelation to have while hanging off the side of a spaceship and floating out into space. 

It had felt worth it. That was maybe the most fucked-up thing. Even when it’d become clear that Clint’s last minute hail Mary pass wasn’t gonna work - when it’d seemed like they were going to miss the ship entirely and just keep fucking floating together, out in the black - Clint hadn’t regretted what he’d done.

Jesus, he hadn’t known it’d gone this far. He’d thought it was like he’d been with everyone else - that he’d pine some, and then he’d be fine - but apparently this was further under his skin than that, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever manage to get it out. 

“I’m not worth your goddamn life,” Bucky said, and Clint shrugged again. 

“Agree to disagree,” he said.


	44. Chapter 44

They look like plague doctors, and Bucky has always kinda wondered if that was deliberate. Sure, there’s some pretty high-tech air-filtration in there, layered in close to the nose and mouth, but the colour and the goggles and the hook to the beak makes ‘em look like they’ve been transplanted straight from the 14th century, wandering around marvelling at all the hovercraft and droiders and holoboards lighting up the sky.

It’s raining hard, slick-shining empty streets, and Bucky has a moment of envy for the guy’s leathery helmet. He’s got a water-repellant hood himself, along with goggles and the breather that covers his mouth and nose, but the acidity in the water still stings his bare forehead. His last umbrella had finally given in and melted into slag a couple weeks ago, but the weather has been drier since, and his handlers aren’t given to being generous with the tech.

Bucky sets his comms to open broadcast, designed to catch onto the frequencies of any listening tech nearby, and shares his ID number and introduces himself, bare essentials only, succinct. There’s a moment of stillness, no sound but the pattering rain, and then a mechanised voice speaks into Bucky’s ear.

“I can’t hear you,” it says, and the guy signs it too, a little clumsy with his heavy leather-like gloves. “I will see what you say but please be clear.”

Signing is most often a poor man’s game, ‘cos the tech available at street level is cobbled together and full of faulty wires. It doesn’t fit with the sophisticated equipment the guy’s wearing, not the kind of stuff that should let you down, and Bucky wonders if the guy has fallen foul of the Force’s stunners or a security system EMP.

He shares his ID number and introduction again, signing along with it this time, his right hand barely hampered by the thin rain-repellant glove and the left newly overhauled and working just fine. He expects the same in response but instead the guy looks right and left, scanning the empty street.

“Is there someplace we can go?” he says, and this time it’s not the mechanised voice he’s expecting but something warmer, worn and tired and tugging at shadowed memories that ain’t welcome in the light. He doesn’t sign along, either, like he’s worried someone’s watching, taking stock. Bucky tips his head to one side, considering, weighing up his curiosity against the potential risk. After a second he grabs the man’s arm and tugs him after him between two buildings, through a holowall that disguises the alleyway the restaurants share. Rain’s not so heavy, there, not the way the wind’s driving it, and once Bucky stops them under the grilled metal of a fire escape he feels safe enough to shove the hood off his head and shake out his hair.

The guy’s hand moves, an involuntary movement too close to his face, and Bucky steps back without thinking about it.

“You let your hair grow out,” the guy says, and there’s no denying the familiarity of his voice now because there’s no easily denying the way it feels to take a knife to your back.

“Take your goddamn mask off,” Bucky says, signs, sends in bright red letters that scream across the bottom of the guy’s goggles, bright enough for him to see them reversed through the dark glass.

“I haven’t got a back-up breather,” he says, and Bucky steps forward, his fists clenched.

“Then hold your fuckin’ breath.”

There’s hesitation for a moment, then the guy grabs hold off his mask by the beak and pulls it up and over his head, tousled blond hair and blue eyes and that goddamned self-deprecating grin.

“Hey Bucky,” Clint says.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING: threats of sexual harrassment/assault.** They get their asses kicked for it.

Bucky hears jeering voices, and it’s like coming down to earth with a jolt that knocks the breath out of him. He’s been floating all evening, swept off his feet by the surreal edge that the circus has put on everything, a flurry of colour and noise and motion where everything before has been khaki, brown and grey. He picks his way between tent poles, circling the back of a canvas confection far brighter than the regimented military campsite in the next field, and finds a scene that clenches a cold hand around his belly.

One of the acrobats, still wearing her sparkling outfit, feathers pinned to her bright red hair, is standing in the middle of a clearing between the tents. The men surrounding her aren’t the worst Bucky coulda picked, assholes but not out and out bad men, only their blood’s up and they’re easing in, smiling like sharks as they call out to her. 

“You wanna entertain the troops, sweetheart?” one says, batting his eyelashes at her. She shoots him a look that woulda made him drop dead if it could. Bucky hastily tucks in his shirt, just about to step forward and intervene when another one of the entertainers walks into the space. 

Even in this moment, even with what’s going on, Bucky flushes bright red to see him. He’s still dressed for his act, bright purple cut close across his chest, his impressive arms uncovered and making Bucky’s mouth dry. He’s taller than any of the assholes sharing Bucky’s uniform, and Bucky hopes for a moment he’s gonna see them get their asses kicked, only the man folds his arms across his chest and leans back against a pole holding up the tent Bucky’s standing just beside. 

“You here to claim your girlfriend?” One of the soldiers taunts him. “You don’t think we deserve to get a piece?” 

“Oh no,” the man says. His voice is just as smooth as it had been in the ring, earlier, when he’d thanked the crowd for their astounded applause. Then he’d shrugged his quiver over his shoulder and picked up his bow, jogging out of the ring - only he’d stopped for just a moment when he’d passed Bucky, shooting him a grin and the very subtlest of winks. “No, I’ve had plenty of what she’s handing out.” 

Heated anger pounds in Bucky’s temples and he steps forward, opening his mouth to let loose his best sergeant’s bellow, only a hand catches his arm and pulls him back a little before he can get going. 

“You don’t wanna get involved,” the archer says softly. “Trust me, it’s more fun to watch.” 

“Fuck yourself,” Bucky snarls, furious, pulling away hard. There’s a quick movement in the corner of his eye and he lunges forward, then draws up short when he sees what the acrobat is doing, the precision and grace with which she moves. In less than no time she’s the only one standing, four seasoned soldiers unconscious or doing their best impression of it, scattered around the clearing. 

“‘Had plenty of what I’m giving out?’” she drawls, her voice lightly accented and edging into amused as she walks over to the archer, punching him in the shoulder hard enough to knock him back. “There will be plenty more besides, if you talk like that.” 

“Hey,” the guy says, wincing, “you know what I meant!”

“I know,” she says, “and that is why you are not hurting so badly as them.” Her mouth curls into a slow grin. “Yet,” she says, and the archer groans low in his chest as she walks away. 

“Oh she is going to make me regret that tomorrow.” He pushes himself upright and looks at Bucky, slow and considering and coaxing all his blood to coil down low. The archer smiles. “Guess I’d better make the most of the rest of tonight.” 

Bucky doesn’t mean to make the soft noise in his throat but it makes the archer’s eyes darken, and he follows Bucky around the corner of the tent, edging closer with every step. In no time he’s got him caught in a corner of coloured canvas, close enough that Bucky can almost feel his body heat, but not nearly so close that there’s no way to escape. 

Bucky’s the one that moves first; he can’t help it. It’s been such a fucking long time. The archer looks surprised and delighted in the moment before their mouths meet, and he kisses like he’s competing for some kinda prize, and he kisses like he’d gold medal at other things as well. 

“Wanna see what _I’m_ givin’ out?” he says, low in Bucky’s ear. 


	46. Chapter 46

Bucky stormed down the stairs, too pissed to bother waiting for the elevator to make it up to the communal area in the penthouse. The metal stairs rang through the stairwell under his heavy booted feet, and the doors at the bottom opened with a satisfying crashing slam.

The helipad was for the executive guests; Tony’d installed huge bay doors - and, for some reason, a limited AI called Hal to control them - so they could gear up and get into the quinjets without any loss of time.

Bucky headed for the armory now, grabbing a bulletproof tac vest and strapping a thigh holster into place, grinding his teeth when the clasp didn’t catch on his first attempt. He sheathed a knife in his boot and another at the small of his back, and stood for a moment looking at the brass knuckles that Vision had confiscated from a mugger a couple months back.

Somewhere behind him a chime rang out, and Bucky didn’t mean to let his shoulders relax but it was kind of inevitable. He tried to shake it off, coil the anger back in, but the scuff of sneakers on concrete smoothed out all the tension in his back and made everything feel a whole hell of a lot more like sad.

“Where’re you going, cowboy?” Clint said, in the same easy tone he’d been telling stories in, like there was nothing wrong with the things he’d had to say. Bucky could tell how far Clint was behind him to the closest inch, and everything in him fought hard against leaning back.

“Gonna find him and kill him,” he said, tipping his head so his hair fell forward, focusing on the holster he was buckling onto his belt. Clint’s hands closed over his hands, warmth and calluses on one side, gentle pressure on the other, and tugged just a little so that Bucky was still.

“You’re not killing anyone,” Clint said, and Bucky considered shaking him off. Would, any moment now.

“Sure I am,” he said. “Trickshot, Duquesne, your goddamn brother, whichever of those fuckers is still alive is gonna have my boot up their ass as the last thing they feel.”

Clint pulled him back and Bucky gave up the ground with an outward show of reluctance that didn’t translate to any resistance at all. He liked the way Clint’s arms felt around him, like something he hadn’t even known he was missing had clicked right back into place. Bucky could feel all the warm length of Clint against the line of his back, and he tilted his head when Clint ducked down so there was room for Clint’s mouth just below the line of his jaw.

“Lucky your dad died when you were a kid,” he growled, feeling Clint’s mouth curve against his skin.

“Yeah, I’ve always thought so,” he said, low and close. His mouth laid careful kisses down the line of Bucky’s neck, stubble sparking sensation that curled down into Bucky’s stomach and lower.

“I’d’ve looked after you if I’d been there,” Bucky said, spreading his fingers so Clint’s could slip between them, tangle them a little more closely and inescapably together.

“Yeah, I know it,” Clint said, “but how about we both look after each other now?”

Bucky loosed his fingers and turned around, tipping his head back so he could look up into Clint’s eyes. “How’s that not what I’m saying?” he grumbled, and was treated to the full force of Clint’s smile.

“How about we look after each other in ways that don’t involve killing,” Clint said, and then leaned down so he could press his mouth to Bucky’s, warm and soft and so familiar it was a sensation almost like pain, a sweetness in it that could maybe kill him if he held onto it wrong. Bucky reached up to cup his jaw and pull him in tighter, pushing up on his toes, and the wet slick sound of their mouths parting filled the whole of the world.

“I got somethin’ you can take care of,” Clint said, low and ridiculous, and Bucky smiled against his mouth.


	47. Chapter 47

“I probably shouldn’t be finding this so sexy,” Clint said, and the smile in his voice seemed like the same smile he always wore there. Bucky looked up and saw that it was resting lightly on his face, too, his lips curled up just a little at the corners; irrepressible, like Clint, like always. 

“I ain’t judging,” Bucky said, tucking his hair behind his ear and sitting back on his heels. Clint shifted his feet just a little, bare feet gentle on the hardwood floor, the clinking shuffle of metal incongruous. The movement left his legs spread a little wider, and it was probably mostly unconscious, and it was probably mostly the moon, but Bucky’s tongue still slicked across his lower lip. 

Clint didn’t quite push down a growl. 

“Keep going,” he said after a second, his voice low and grating, and Bucky felt the easing of obedience thrill through him, curling up out of his stomach in electric vines that shivered along his limbs. He spread his fingers, looking for something to earth him, and brushed against the denim that covered Clint’s calf like sparks. 

He stilled and breathed there for a second, his mouth open so he could keep his breath soundless, and then he unsteadily reached for the second set of cuffs. He wasn’t moving too slowly - he was aware, like always on nights like this, of the steady departure of the light - but he still didn’t manage to wrangle the leather in time to stop Clint from sliding his hand along the line of Bucky’s jaw and down to settle across his neck, squeezing just enough to make him conscious of his swallowing, squeezing just enough to show he didn’t have to stop. His nails were longer and thicker than they had been, and Bucky tilted his head back a little to constrict his throat, to lean into the prick of them like they could just sink in. 

“You need to cuff me,” Clint said, Iowa drawl splayed out and pinned down with claws, growling low in his throat. 

“I know,” Bucky said, soft, and he could hear the reluctance in his own voice. Clint’s grip pulsed against his throat and squeezed a whine out of him, high and tight and panting. 

“You need to cuff me, Bucky, or I’m gonna -” 

“I _know_ ,” Bucky said, and lifted his hand to snap the heavy metal into place, pulling on the chain to drag Clint’s hand away from his skin. 

The bench was a heavy one, made of metal, and it was bolted to the floor. The chains threaded between its legs, secured to it and to heavy rings screwed into the floor and through it, anchored in the concrete of the foundations. Clint had some range of motion - in both of the shapes he wore - but he was held and pinned and helpless, and Bucky knew how he felt. 

He closed the last cuff around Clint’s wrist and secured it, and he didn’t step back. Clint’s eyes were darker, and maybe that was the departing sun or maybe it was the approaching moon, but the anger in them was neither. That was all Clint. 

“You are pushing,” he growled, “your goddamn luck, Bucky,” and Bucky bit his lip and stepped even closer, between Clint’s spread legs, between the shadow and the last hints of the evening sunlight, and leaned down to breathe out against Clint’s mouth. 

“I know,” he said. 


	48. Chapter 48

Bucky had always liked the winter, partly because summer made the straps of his prosthetic rub like hell, heavy and close and uncomfortable, and partly because he’d always known that winter was when he was gonna meet his soulmate. 

He’d liked that certainty, had held on tight to it through dark times - first with both hands, and then with just the one. He always found himself getting a little excited on the first morning there was crisp cold carried in the air, and stubbornly clung on to his sweaters and woolens far past the point where they really ought to’ve been discarded for spring. 

Bucky had a suitcase by the front door that never zipped up all the way, and any time someone stumbled into it it vomited mismatched gloves and woolen hats and scarves all colours of the rainbow. He had long scarves and wide scarves, tightly-woven and loose-spun, and he’d even thought about buying some thin, sheer ones, just in case. But confining his pining to four or five months in every twelve was better for him, in the long run, and instead he sweated and scowled through the summer and waited impatiently for fall. 

It finally happened one morning, that long-awaited fuckin’ moment, stumbled over and almost missed in the chaos of his morning commute. 

“Hey, bro, watch your scarf,” someone called after him, muffled, and Bucky spun around - whipping his scarf away from where it was just about to get caught in the train doors - and searched the platform through the scratched-up glass. 

Blue eyes. 

That was all he goddamned saw: blue eyes, faded like worn denim, in a thin strip of cold-flushed face between a thick purple scarf wrapped around his mouth and a black beanie hat with a purple H. 

_“Fuck_ ,” he yelled, pounding his clenched fist against the door as the train pulled away, and even in the packed carriage a space cleared around him. Fuck, he couldn’t breathe, and he considered pulling the emergency brake, taking the fine for misuse on the goddamn chin, but they were already halfway through a tunnel and no way was Bucky gonna be able to pull himself back up onto the platform, not with his goddamned arm. 

By the time he stumbled off the train at the next station he’d frozen from the inside out, curled in on himself and numb; by the time he got back to where he’d started from, no surprises, the man was gone. 

*

He hadn’t said anything back. He hadn’t said anything _back_ and the guy didn’t _know_ and all bets were off because Bucky’s words were forlorn and disconnected and meaningless now. Who the fuck knew when he’d meet him again? How the fuck would he know him when he did?

Now the winter was just winter, nothing in it to look forward to, and the cold was just something that sank into his bones. Bucky quit wearing scarves for as long as it took his shoulder to hate him for it, then started wearing the same one every damned day. The suitcase got kicked out of the way into a corner, and Steve and Sam’s shoes piled up around it. 

He felt like he was missing something that he’d never got to have. 

There was still something sentimental in him, though. Something that kept him wearing the scarf a little longer than he meant to, until the sweat was prickling around his neck and making him as crabby as the summer. 

It was a morning in March, ineffectual alarm-clock and missed coffee and a painfully jostled arm on the stairs, and when something grabbed at his scarf Bucky spun around and practically snarled. 

“Watch the scarf, jackass,” he snapped, and wasn’t expecting the tall or the ripped or the goddamned _beautiful_ grin. 

“It’s you,” the guy breathed, and his smile lit up the whole of him: his purple shirt, and his golden hair, and his eyes of faded blue.


	49. Chapter 49

Clint Barton was not a good cook. 

Sure, he’d been feeding himself for years, and he hadn’t died yet, but everything he put in his mouth was either functionally nutritious or heated from frozen and that suited him just fine. It wasn’t that he didn’t _appreciate_ good food. It was just that his standards of ‘good’ had been honed from years of the circus into mostly just ‘enough’ and ‘covered in cheese’. 

What Clint did have, though, was a hell of a green thumb. He’d tracked down - from faded and incomplete signs, and from years-old phone numbers, and from layers of shell corporations - the owners of a vacant lot just behind his building, and he’d bought it up without all that much of a fight. Now he was working on building a community garden project, everyone who wanted one with a little plot of land, and all the space left over growing crops that anyone could take. 

It was a huge investment of time, but he had enough money that he didn’t need to invest in earning a wage, so time was a commodity he had plenty of outside of his Avenging. The thing with crops, though, was that it tended to be seasonal, and there was honestly only so much zucchini even Clint’s building could eat. 

He’d thought about leaving it on people’s stoops, knocking and running, but then he’d found the soup kitchen a few blocks over and he’d become a regular patron. 

So every few days Clint headed over, sacks full of groceries in a little cart. He took a bunch of the vegetables they’d harvested that week, and always spent some on a little bit extra too - sanitary supplies, deodorants, clothes, whatever the women who ran the place asked for, and always plenty of cheese. 

The kitchen was always pretty busy, full of bustling people in aprons, so Clint mostly just found someone to take his haul and then buzzed off again. A couple of times, though, he’d found the place a little quieter than usual, and he’d stuck around to have a chat. The woman who’d started the place was called Dolores, and she was fearsome and practically spherical and had the biggest laugh of anyone Clint had ever met. He kinda wanted her to meet Thor; he thought the pair of them would get on. She always wore strips of cloth to keep her hair tamed a little back, bright colors and beautiful patterns, and her voice was rich with the sounds of somewhere far away. 

“In,” she said one day, too busy for much in the way of words, and Clint followed her inside the kitchen and ducked down to let her hook an apron over his head, bemused as she pushed him to the sink and made him wash his hands - and then made him wash them again - before she let him loose with a knife on the carrots and tomatoes he’d brought. Clint was a master with a knife, trained and deadly, but according to her unimpressed snorting he still had a little to learn. 

“You’ll do,” she said finally, and just like that Clint was volunteering a couple times a week. 

It was good work. Sociable and good for the soul, but also the kind of exhausting that tends to chase out the bad dreams. Clint was never allowed to have any kind of creative control in the kitchen - Clint was _not_ a good cook - but he could follow orders with the best of them, and he was a strong and willing pair of hands. 

Sometimes he was ordered to the serving line, whenever they were cooking anything that needed precise timings, or some element of skill. The old couple that mostly worked the serving line liked how easy he found it to haul around the huge service trays, even if Gladys kept yelling at him for forgetting to use potholders. It was kinda mechanical work, shovelling out spoonfuls of rice or pasta or potatoes, directing people to the silverware, but he handed out smiles with the food and sometimes got a few words outta them if the demand was a little slow. 

It got him out of his head, and his head had never been a great place to be. 

It wasn’t something he talked about to the Avengers, though. He didn’t want Tony making it into a Thing, photoshoots and Avengers kudos, everyone coming down to get a glimpse. (Clint was aware they’d be hoping for a glimpse of Captain America, not Hawkeye, but his relevant anonymity had never been anything but a blessing.)

Maybe if people had known he was there, though, he wouldn’t have got stabbed. 

*

It was a day much like any other. Clint had been bullied out to the front of house, collecting up plates and silverware that were finished with and stacking them in a huge plastic tub. He’d already spilled food down the front of his shirt, and that meant he’d get crammed into one of the kitchen’s promotional shirts that were always two sizes too small, and it also meant that he was likely to get wolf-whistled by Gladys and Terry when he had to strip off his own shirt. 

That was mostly what he was thinking about, mechanically collecting and scraping and storing plates, and he honestly wasn’t expecting to look up into gunmetal blue eyes that widened and filled with fear. 

“Hey,” he said, putting the tub down on a table and raising his hands, “no need to -” 

He registered the metal arm too late, reacted too late, felt his legs go out from under him even before he felt the knife in his side. He saw fleeing feet, heavy boots and the stumbling run of someone too tired and hungry to function; he saw the bloodprints they left behind them. 

Dolores had just made him mop the goddamn floor that morning; if he managed to survive this, there was no way she wasn’t gonna make him do it again. 


	50. Chapter 50

Clint drummed his fingers on the door frame and smiled, wide and winning, when Hot IT Bucky looked up. The eyeroll, admittedly, wasn’t the *most* encouraging, but Clint was known in most circles for throwing himself headfirst into unwinnable situations, so he still edged into the room.

The IT drop-ins had started in response to complaints that the responses to emailed queries were ‘brusque’ and ‘borderline aggressive’ and ‘anatomically improbable’. Rather than address the issue himself, the head of IT, Stark, had hired on a couple of staff to handle his communications for him.

Steve was almost painfully polite. He absolutely had some backbone to him, but he was so sweet about it that you were outside the office door before you realised that he’d told you ‘no’. Stark mostly made Steve answer the emails - there were rumours about why he wanted to keep him in the office, and Clint mostly avoided touching the furniture in there. Steve was tall and wide and smartly dressed, and probably ninety nine percent of the office had a crush on him.

And then there was Bucky.

Bucky was Steve’s polar opposite, in many ways. He was - not impolite, nowhere near improper, but there were *layers* added by his tone of voice. He stuck to Stark’s policy of shirts and ties - probably enforced purely for how Steve looked in ‘em - but Bucky wore his sleeves rolled up and his collar unbuttoned, heavy boots not entirely office appropriate on his feet.

He had long dark hair and a jawline to die for, and Clint had just about expired on the spot that one time he’d seen him smile.

“I refuse to believe you’ve forgotten your password again,” Bucky said, looking down at his laptop like that would hide the little quirk at the edge of his mouth, which was currently where all of Clint’s hoping lived. “This is the third time this week.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, balling all his courage up in his stomach, “but my reminder phrase was just ‘Hot IT guy’s number’, and I couldn’t remember where I’d written it down.”

Bucky looked up and met his eyes for a second.

“Steve’s spoken for,” he said.

“Steve who?” Clint asked, tongue-tied into idiocy by that particular shade of steel-blue.

Bucky’s mouth eased into the barest hint of a smile.

“If you’d read the IT policy,” he said, “you’d know you’re not supposed to write your password down anywhere. Not to mention it should be a combination of letters and numbers.”

“Right,” Clint said, unreasonably disappointed. “I’ll just go change it, then.”

“Yeah,” said Bucky, and then reached across his desk to grab Clint by the wrist, his fingers warm against Clint’s skin. He tapped Clint’s wrist with his finger, a wordless instruction to stay, and then grabbed a sharpie and uncapped it with his mouth. “I guess you’d better change it from this,” he said, and scrawled a number across the back of Clint’s hand, and Clint’s hopeless, helpless smile grew with every cool line.


	51. Chapter 51

“They sent me to kill you three times,” Bucky says. 

They’re sprawled on Clint’s bed together, and the lights are down low, and the shadows are given brief form by the flickering light from the television. Bucky told him he likes Ghibli, likes how most of it is conflict free, likes how the things it thinks are hiding in the shadows are mostly mischievous and mostly kind. 

Bucky’s resting up against the headboard, pillows stacked up behind his back to support him just right. Clint’s half-lying between his spread legs, one arm curled around Bucky’s hitched up knee; Bucky’s holding his other hand and stroking over his fingers, absentminded. Their hands are resting over Clint’s heart, and he has no doubts whatsoever that Bucky can feel the way the beating hitches.

“Why me?” Clint asks, and Bucky displaces a pillow with a shrug. He never asked, of course. It wasn’t his place. “Then why _didn’t_ you?” 

“First time, the building blew up,” Bucky says, and Clint frowns for a second. 

“Kansas?”

“Kansas,” Bucky confirms. “Thought the explosives had done my work for me.”

“Ha,” Clint says, “more fool you, I’m a fuckin’ cockroach.” 

“By the time they worked that out they’d lost interest,” he says, and then jostles Clint with a laugh when Clint can’t help but make an offended noise. Obviously he didn’t want Bucky to kill him, but it’d be nice to know he _counted_. 

“Second time?” Clint asks, and Bucky shifts their hands over to Clint’s shoulder, to a place where a starburst of silver remembered pain rests under his clothes. 

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Clint says. “That was _you?”_

“That time you were more like collateral,” Bucky says. “I think - I remember being kinda satisfied that I could just get you out of the way.” 

“It probably says terrible things about our relationship that I think that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” Clint says, and when Bucky goes still he shuffles and twists so he can press a kiss to the tensed-up line of his jaw. Breathes out against it like if he thinks ‘em hard enough the words will just come out of him the way he always means them to, instead of getting all tangled up behind his teeth. 

“The third time I’d been out a few days,” Bucky says. “I was starting to - lose focus, I guess.” 

“Starting to be more _you_ ,” Clint says, fierce, and squeezes Bucky’s hand. 

“I liked your smile,” Bucky said, soft and kinda wistful, and Clint feels the words making room for themselves in his mouth like they’re not terrifying, like they’re necessary like breathing out. Bucky smiles a little and thumbs at Clint’s cheek, at the place a divot appears when he’s happy. “I don’t think I’d seen one in a while,” he says. 


	52. Chapter 52

In the liminal spaces between freezing and waking, between wishing for death and taking it into himself, between breathing and drowning, he remembers what he is. 

The rest of the time he is a monster without a soul. He is hands without a mind, a weapon without a will, a waking nightmare that has gone decades without sleep. They stole who he is away from him, but _what_ he is is sleek between their fingers and in the frozen darkness he can feel them crawling over his skin. 

Of everything they took from him, his skin is the strongest tether, the worst and deepest hurt. 

*

Barney’s gonna be so goddamned mad at him, Clint knows it. He didn’t get _caught_ , he didn’t fumble or fall or have an attack of conscience because he’s learning to live with its pricking, but he’s turned too many corners and he’s not entirely sure of his way back. It ain’t gonna take a lot to find his way, most likely - how many circuses are there gonna be in town? - but he’s later than he ought to be and Barney shows his worry with the broad flat of his hand. Clint’s never gonna tell him that just ‘cos he doesn’t curl in his fingers, that doesn’t make him different from their dad. 

There’s something a little dizzying about being lost, though. Just this moment of breathless freedom where the whole world is at his fingertips, and his fingertips don’t gotta be in someone’s pocket, easing out their wallet, at least for a little while more. He slows down a little, drags his feet, ignores the grumbling of his stomach, ‘cos it’s more than his life’s worth not to bring back everything he took. He looks up, cranes his neck back and stares at the thin strip of blue between buildings, nearly trips over a guy who’s bent down over a crate. 

“The hell are you doing, kid?” he snaps, his voice layered thick with some accent Clint doesn’t know, and Clint skitters back a couple paces. The guy’s attention isn’t on him, though; he’s more concerned about the crate he’s hauled out of a dark gray van. Its lid has come loose, and there’s some kinda blue glow from inside, and it looks like the whole structure of the crate was relying on the lid of it, ‘cos no matter how he tries to lift it it finds a new way to try and spill. 

He calls something after a minute or two, something guttural and thick in his mouth. Clint kinda likes the way it sounds. Another guy slides out of the driver’s side door and comes to help, bitching and grumbling in words Clint doesn’t understand. They manage to get the crate a little more stable between them, and they disappear into a building that leads off the alleyway without a look back. 

And Clint thinks - Clint thinks that yeah, he’s gonna be late, but maybe he can buy his way out of Barney’s annoyance. Maybe he can buy his way past Duquesne. Maybe there’s something left in the van worth taking, and before he’s even got to the end of thinking it he’s climbing into the back, shoving the door a little more open so he can see the building, make a run for it if anyone comes out. 

There are more crates just like the one they’d carried off, all of them with the same weird octopus thing burned into the side. There’s no way he’s carrying one of those, though - no way they wouldn’t notice if he did - so he eels between them and looks for something else he can lift, one eye on the door behind him. 

He doesn’t expect to find the skin. 

He knows what it is. Of course he knows what it is - his mom had one too, and only his dad knew where it was kept. He’d take it out sometimes to taunt her with, so Clint knows what one looks like when he sees it rolled up like that. 

The state of it’s familiar, too. Mom’s had that dull look to it, too, worn out and faded away, too long unworn and untouched. Too long in the possession of someone it shouldn’t be. And maybe that’s a little bit what Clint’s thinking, when he tucks it under his arm and clambers out of the back of the van, ducks his head down and runs for it, as far and as fast as he can. Maybe he’s thinking how no one should have something so precious and not look after it the way it should be. 

Maybe it’s a little bit the distant, fragmented memory of his mom when she was happy, and the way her soft skin felt against his fingers. Maybe it’s a little how warm it was. Maybe it’s a little how cold the caravan gets at night. 

He tells himself he’ll find the selkie that owns it, someday, and that the moment he does he’ll give it back, but he’s aware that he’s kidding himself. How likely is that?

*

The moment between not-sleeping and waking has always been painful, half-drowned lungs taking a bare and water-logged breath. 

This time it feels different. The promise of light, a hole in the ice after too long entombed. A breath of clear air. A freedom unlike anything he remembers. 

The Soldier wakes without their hands on him. And he wakes _angry_.


	53. Chapter 53

Clint woke to the low rumble of voices, Bucky’s vibrating right through him from where he was sprawled on top of Clint, lying chest to chest. Supersoldier serum was as good as a heat pack, Bucky’s weight somehow soothing on his bruises. Clint’s casted arm was resting across the small of Bucky’s back, and it didn’t feel like he’d moved even an inch for however long Clint had been asleep. 

Clint kinda loved all the ways they fit together, all the contexts they fit together in. And sure, maybe that sounded like a euphemism - and maybe a little it was, ‘cos hell _yes_ they fit together in all the right ways. But it was also how they fought, and how they talked, and how they sprawled together like this. The shapes they made fit right with the world, and the shapes they made didn’t have just one of them contorting to fit. 

Bucky always got like this when Clint was hurt. He didn’t say anything, was as brusque and snippy as ever with his words, but he was careful with Clint in ways that - in ways that Clint felt he ought to be a little annoyed by, but never quite managed it. 

Any hint from anyone else that he needed special treatment and he’d dive off goddamn buildings to prove them wrong. If Steve ever suggested he take a back seat he’d square up and step forward; if Bruce expressed a wisp of concern Clint’d make sure to ride Hulk into battle like a goddamn tank. Somehow that wasn’t how it worked with Bucky, even though he was the one Clint most wanted to impress. 

Bucky made him feel like he was enough as he was, and Clint trusted that in ways that he was only just beginning to learn the shape of. 

“ - carry Clint back to his -” Steve said, and Clint interrupted.

“‘M up,” he said, before he was, forcing his eyes a little open. “‘M good.” 

“I was just saying I could -” Steve started, but Bucky cut him off. 

“He’s good,” he said. “You heard the man.” 

“Sure,” Steve said, and the disbelieving tone put Clint’s back up like nothing else, made him want to push to his feet, maybe go to the range and practice his knife throwing - you could do that one-handed, no worries. “Well,” Steve continued, “I’m going to call it a night.” 

“Night Stevie,” Bucky said, without moving a millimeter, his heavy weight anchoring Clint. 

Clint left his bad hand where it was, ‘cos he wanted to stroke his fingers through Bucky’s hair and he didn’t want to give the poor guy a concussion. The band-aids on his other hand caught a couple times on the strands, but he was patient and gentle until he could ease them loose, Bucky practically purring under his hand. 

“You ready to get up?” Bucky said, and there wasn’t any weight of expectation to the words, and Clint’s mouth eased into the kinda smile he was only just learning the shape of, too. 

“I could stand to stay here a little longer,” he said.


	54. Chapter 54

At this point in his life, Clint kinda had a lot of money. 

It wasn’t something he’d kept the best track of, maybe. He remembered his mom saying, once, “look after the cents, and the dollars will look after themselves,” but mostly he remembered his dad looking after the dollars, and the rest of them having to look after themselves. 

The years after his dad was gone, in the orphanage and the circus, those’d been pretty lean. He’d made some money - a little more than Barney - and he’d looked after it as best he could; he’d hidden it all over so there’d be some stashes Barney didn’t touch, ‘cos the clowns were steadily convincing Barney into a gambling problem. He’d gotten used to making the cents stretch as far as they could go, in the hopes that eventually there might be a dollar or two. 

Clint learned to eat cheap and make clothes last; Madame Esmerelda taught him how to darn his socks by lamplight, telling him tales of moroi and pricolici and strigoi that had him darting between lamplit pools on his way back to his trailer, keeping away from the shadows. He had to maintain his own costumes and his own bow, and he learned a bunch of things about building and repairing that stood his landlording in pretty good stead. 

He learned how to make things last, how to make broken things work, how to cling onto things far past when most people would decide they were useless. 

It maybe didn’t help so much with his dating life. 

But that kinda upbringing, it formed habits, and Clint was frugal to the point of absurdity. And apparently, without quite noticing, kinda rich. 

The thing was, he made his possessions last because nothing else ever did. Things fell apart too easily, so he invested in duct tape. The pile of money that was slowly growing - stashed in multiple banks, just in case - was something like a safety net, for when all this fell through. 

He’d never trusted in the future, worked hard not to invest in anything new, and he hadn’t intended to start now. 

Only… then there was Bucky. Bucky who didn’t trust himself but somehow proved that Clint could trust him implicitly, over and over and over again. Bucky who helped him repair and sand and repaint an old coffee table Clint’d found in a skip. Bucky who settled into Clint’s bed night after night without complaining, punching the pillows into something that was almost like comfortable, apparently unbothered that Clint’d been carrying them around since his circus days. 

And Clint worked and learned and talked and repaired, determined to keep this working, just like the battered bedside lamp that used to belong to his mom. 

“Hey,” he said, walking in through the door one day, basking in the way Bucky smiled to see him. 

“Hey,” Bucky said, walking over to kiss him, slow and hot and perfect, sliding his hands down Clint’s arms to tangle with his fingers, but interrupted by the crinkle of plastic bags. Bucky looked down and then raised an eyebrow, ‘cos mostly Clint hauled shopping home in a backpack that had been on its last legs for several years. 

“So I got us new pillows,” he said, and kinda hoped Bucky’d know what that meant.


	55. Chapter 55

Clint doesn’t think, the first night, either of them are gonna get much sleep. 

He isn’t used to sharing his space at night, any more. The occasional hookups that he used to drift between, feeding his touch starvation with anonymous lips and hands and - if he could hold onto them - a night of closeness and warmth, dried up right around the time that Loki had invaded his mind. 

He hasn’t gone entirely without; there was that guy with the eyebrow piercing who blew him in the alley behind the gym, and Paula, the nurse, in that Starbucks bathroom. But he’s not used to trusting someone when he’s vulnerable, got out of the habit of giving them his back. 

Maybe it ought to be different with Bucky. 

If you can trust a guy to take out the two aliens behind you while you’re taking out the three to your left, you ought to sleep like a baby with him curled up behind you, right? If you can trust a metal hand, slick with lube, to stroke you tight and perfect while you whimper into a guy’s mouth, then you ought to be able to breathe deep and certain while it’s curled across your chest. And he can, or he would, only he’s not used to the perfect darkness of it all, and his eyes keep trying to fool him that there’s something in the pool of deep shadow by the door. 

Mostly Clint sleeps with his blinds open, ‘cos streetlight-orange outlines everything in his bedroom in safety. He kinda wanted to fuck with the lights on, though - partly because Bucky’s just that goddamned beautiful, and partly because Clint’s gotta take every possible opportunity to prove that to him - and he hadn’t wanted the girls across the alleyway to get an eyefull. And once you’re done - once your breathing is slowing and you’re curled all close - it feels somehow different to reach over and turn off the lamp than it does to get out of bed and open the blinds up. He hadn’t wanted to give even a moment’s uncertainty, hadn’t wanted Bucky to take cues he never meant and grab for his clothes like he’d always done before. 

Only now, lying in the darkness, unable to sleep, he’s gotta wonder what kinda cues Bucky’s getting. Because it’s pretty clear that he hasn’t fallen asleep either. 

“I can go,” Bucky says eventually, low and uncertain in the darkness. “If I’m keeping you up.” 

Clint swears under his breath and grabs onto Bucky’s hand, metal plates cool against his skin. 

“You’re not,” Clint says, “I don’t want you to, it’s embarrassing as hell that I can’t -” 

“It’s embarrassing as hell that I sleep with a nightlight, when I’m home,” Bucky interrupts him, “and I’m too knocked sideways by you to care if I get any sleep tonight.” 

“Oh thank fuck,” Clint says, and practically hurls himself off the mattress, tugging the cord to open the blind and saluting the sleepless girl in the window across the alleyway who’s gaping at his dick. He’s back over on the bed in a moment, wrapping his arm around Bucky - who’s rolled over like he’s planning to go somewhere - before he can get too far. 

“I can’t sleep in the dark,” he says, in a rush, into Bucky’s ear, “but I was willing not to sleep if I wasn’t sleeping with you.” 


	56. Chapter 56

Bucky blinks his eyes open, just in time to catch Clint grinning at the camera. He’s only lit by the faint blue of the laptop, sitting propped up on pillows in his bedroom in Bed-Stuy, and the light sparks strange highlights in his rumpled pale hair. Something shifts on the left of the screen and Clint laughs and pats the bed next to him, and the camera’s knocked sideways for a moment while Lucky makes himself comfortable. 

“You awake, princess?” Clint asks, staring into the camera directly for a second as he rights it before he looks down at his own screen, the smile coming back a little softer this time. “Y’know, Tasha said you don’t sleep on missions. Guess she’s fallen for a little of the Winter Soldier mystique, huh?” 

Bucky shrugs, the cheap motel sheets hissing with the movement, and settles himself a little deeper into his own nest of pillows. 

“Not often I feel safe on missions,” he says. 

“It’s ‘cos you don’t have me watching your back,” Clint says, and Lucky wuffs softly, like he agrees. 

“Sure,” Bucky says. “That must be it,” and he can almost see Clint trying to work out whether he means it or not. Honestly he’s not so sure himself. Not like either one of ‘em can tell from his tone of voice, ‘cos Bucky’s in that liminal space between awake and asleep, where your voice is too heavy to press up into any emotion. He blinks, and it lasts a little longer than it should. 

“Guess the security’s good at that motel, then,” Clint says, and Bucky huffs out a breath. 

“Nah, that ain’t what it is,” he says, eyes easing closed, mouth easing into a smile. “Keep talking, your voice helps me sleep.” 


	57. Chapter 57

Bucky didn’t stop stealing the clothes that fell down from Clint’s balcony, but he sometimes took the opportunity to call up and get Clint out there, too. It was nice to have someone to chat to that wasn’t Steve, for a change, ‘cos Clint never checked in on how his therapy was going, or how long it’d been since he’d left the house. 

Sometimes Clint did bitch about how cold his apartment was, though, and how Bucky had stolen all of his good hoodies. Bucky snuggled in deeper, tipped his head back so he could see Clint peering down through the grilled floor at him, made sure to make his smile all kinds of smug. 

And then, unable to sleep in the middle of the night, he snuck up the empty stairs and perched a microwaveable frog on Clint’s door handle. Something his mom had got him, filled with wheat and lavender, soft and warm as all hell. It had never managed to help him sleep but he figured that was a lot to ask from an inanimate object, and he figured maybe it’d work for Clint. 

They spent more and more time outside their windows. It wasn’t the goddamn weather for it at all. And one day - after weeks and months and daily talking - Clint asked if maybe Bucky’d be interested in coming up for coffee, one time. 

Bucky took a moment to examine his feelings about that. Tucked his nose into the softness of his sweater and thought about how he had - white-knuckled - gone to the store just to sniff all the laundry detergent so he could online order the right one. The one that smelled like home, now, in ways he had spent way too long turning over in his mind. 

“I could go for coffee,” he said. 

He almost turned back three times, on the stairs; almost hyperventilated himself into a heart attack when slow steps followed him up. Mrs Marquez patted him gently on the arm as she passed, and he dropped to sit on the step and put his head between his knees until he felt like he could move again. 

He was goddamned proud of himself that he kept moving up. 

Clint’s smile was so soft, when he opened the door. So genuinely happy that Bucky had to shift his weight and peer past him into the apartment ‘cos he couldn’t meet his eyes. 

“Sorry,” Clint said, “it’s kinda a mess, and I haven’t put my bed away yet.” He went over to tug a sheet and a blanket off the couch, folding them messily and looking around like he had no idea what to do with them. Bucky shuffled in but left the front door open behind him, then bent to pick up something that’d tumbled to the floor. 

“You sleep with the stuffed animal I gave you?” he asked, and watched with an odd kinda delight as a blush boiled up into Clint’s cheeks. 

“I - er - “ Clint fumbled, and Bucky grinned and tossed him the frog, tucking the sleeves of the purple hoodie he was wearing over his hands. He shrugged. 

“I always sleep in your clothes.”


	58. Chapter 58

“Bucky,” Clint said, when they were just about to go out on stage for the press conference, the lights bright above the seats they’d be taking and a room full of faces that Bucky had to not fuck up in front of. 

It wasn’t technically a press conference about him. Not technically. Tony and Steve had cooked up some scheme where they figured it might go down better to introduce Bucky as an official part of the team as part of something positive, so the press conference was about the amount of money and medical equipment Stark Industries was donating to deal with the nasty flu outbreak that was going around. Whether the press conference was about him or not, though, all those eyes were gonna be on him, and Bucky felt like he was gonna twitch out of his skin. 

“Hey, Bucky,” Clint said, and Bucky turned to snap at him but stopped before he could speak. Clint was pale, his eyes were kinda red-rimmed, and he was swaying a little on his feet. 

“What the hell,” Bucky hissed, quiet as he could make it. “You okay?” 

“Sure,” Clint said, and his voice was a little raspy, and he sounded kinda washed out and weak. “Tony said I’ve gotta be fine because we have to present a united front, and there was absolutely no way in hell I was allowed to get the flu.” He grinned, wan but doing his best, and Bucky reached out to snag his sleeve so he wouldn’t topple onto his ass. 

“You look like shit,” he said, and Clint hunched his shoulders and chewed on his lip. 

“Well when have I ever let Tony stop me doing stuff?” he said. 

“Okay, you need to go back to the tower,” Bucky said. “You need to -” 

“I need to do the supportive thing,” Clint said, stubborn. “I took a shitload of medicine and I’m ready to go, only -” 

“Only?” Bucky said, wary, and was interrupted by a yawn so big that he could see exactly how red and painful Clint’s throat looked. 

“Only I think maybe I took Nyquil instead of Dayquil,” Clint said, “and there’s a genuine possibility I’m gonna pass out.” 

“You need to -” Bucky cursed, low and annoyed, as someone on stage announced them, and before he could insist that Clint go home the guy was being tugged up behind Steve and Bucky had to helplessly follow. He growled under his breath and took the chair next to Clint, ensuring that they were scooted as close as they could be so he could grab the guy if he started to tip off his chair. 

Tony did most of the talking. Tony always did most of the talking, what with practice and preference, and Bucky mostly just tried to look attentive and nodded when it seemed like the time. He had to prop Clint back upright a couple of times, but his sideways drift was slow but inevitable, and it seemed like it’d do less damage in the long run if Clint drifted his way. 

Clint was warm and heavy against him, and Bucky tried to angle himself to allow Clint to get comfortable - he didn’t want the guy waking up with a sore neck. He worked hard to ignore the feelings it roused in him, having Clint all close, feeling the skin of Clint’s too-warm forehead resting against his jaw, but when he jerked his head up at the sound of his name it took a second to wipe the gentle smile off his face. 

“See,” Tony said, a little aggressively, to a reporter in the front row. “The guy’s a pussycat, look at that face.” 

He would’ve scowled at Tony for that, destroyed all the good work they’d done, only Clint chose that moment to nuzzle in a little closer, and Bucky wasn’t sure he managed to disguise the way he melted. 


	59. Chapter 59

Bucky woke to gentle music he couldn’t identify, the sound of someone humming along a little off-key. He was in a leather chair, tipped a little back, and there was a moment of breathless terror until he moved his arms and confirmed that there was nothing restraining him. He opened his eyes to dimmed lights and a jumble of green plants, registering the fresh citrus scent of some kinda beauty product and the hiss of synthetic material as he moved. 

“Oh hey,” someone said. “You’re awake.” 

He didn’t usually wake this dislocated, unsure of time and space, not unless he’d snapped out of a nightmare; this had been a gentle waking. He mostly just wasn’t used to waking somewhere that wasn’t home, safe behind double locked doors, and he tried to struggle a little more upright like that would do anything as a defense. 

The other man in the room didn’t come any closer while Bucky shuffled around, eventually finding a lever that shifted the chair a little more upright. Bucky appreciated the hell out of that. 

It was coming back to him now. Steve bitching about his hair, him getting frustrated with how impossible it was to tie it away from your goddamn face with one arm, the upcoming job interview where he wanted to make a good impression. He’d been contemplating taking clippers to his head, only there was no way he could coordinate two mirrors and Steve was staying at Sam’s for the week, trying to make the long distance thing work. Eventually he’d turned to Natasha - as the only person who really got him, even if it was mostly shown through understanding silences and scathing comments - and she’d recommended this place to him. 

Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face, still caught up in the warm lassitude of easy sleep, and the other man made a soft noise in the back of his throat. He was smiling a little, when Bucky looked over, and he raised both hands when he saw the look on Bucky’s face. 

“Look bro,” he said, “I can’t help it if you’re adorable, that one is entirely on you.” 

Bucky’d been wary, coming in. He’d liked the feel of the place - clean and simple and empty, and something Natasha had said had him convinced that that was mostly for him. He’d been reassured when the guy had grinned and welcomed him in; Clint was big but friendly looking, and he might’ve had an eyebrow piercing and a purple cuff around his wrist but his hair was relatively normal looking, just a little tousled like he’d just had someone’s hands through it. (Probably his own, sure, but the guy was _hot_ and Bucky wouldn’t’ve blamed anyone in the least.)

They’d talked a little, discussed what Bucky wanted, and then Bucky’d had his hair washed. There’d been a difficult moment - chair tipped back, water running over his head - but Clint’s low voice had been a constant reassuring presence to keep him grounded, and nothing had ever felt so good as Clint’s hands in his hair. 

“I can’t believe I fell asleep on you,” Bucky said, voice a little gritty with sleep. 

“I have magic hands,” Clint said with a grin. “You’d be surprised how goddamn often it happens.” 

“And you always stay late to let ‘em sleep?” 

Clint grinned, abashed, and rubbed at the back of his neck. 

“Okay, no,” he admitted, “mostly I turn the music a little louder and maybe poke ‘em a little, but you looked like you needed it.” 

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” Bucky said, sleep-slow brain still not up to prevaricating, “Jesus, I’d pay you to do that to me every night.” 

Clint gave him a look, a blatant once over that Bucky could almost feel like a warm touch. 

“I would not be averse,” he said.


	60. Chapter 60

Clint was a little dizzy with the heat when he came in to collapse on the porch swing, too long pulling up the weeds that were trying to crowd out the carrots, swallow up all their sun. He’d started early in the morning, before the sun had really made it up all the way, and there had been a gentle kind of mist low over the rows of vegetables. He hadn’t really noticed the heat as it snuck up on him, not until he’d tried to twist out the crick in his neck and felt how hot and tight his skin felt. 

He honestly hadn’t been avoiding the house, although he could kinda see how it could be seen that way. He’d never been a great morning-after guy, was the thing, and mornings after didn’t usually have the weight to them that this did. 

See, pursuing hadn’t been the word, really. Pursuing usually indicates some kinda intent, and maybe the conviction that there’s something there to be caught. Clint had been - waiting, maybe. Observing. Hoping a little desperately for some kinda sign that there was something to pursue. 

A faucet ran briefly in the house, and Clint - who hadn’t been paying attention to any comings and goings, in the deliberate and focused way that fear will get you - hissed a little as his involuntary smile tugged at tightened skin. 

He honestly hadn’t had a clue. In spite of all his watching, in spite of how raring he was to go. He hadn’t had a clue until Bucky had backed him up against a wall, slowed down a little and made more intent by leftover Asgardian booze, and slowly teased at Clint’s mouth until Clint was utterly breathless with it. And then somehow, for all Clint’s planning for pursuit, Bucky’d been the one that’d followed him home. 

Clint hissed as a cold wet cloth was draped over his back, a painful kind of bliss. 

“The aloe’s in the refrigerator,” Bucky said, still with that low note that’d sunk right down to Clint’s gut, last night, and tied all sorts of interesting knots there. “You’re kind of an idiot, huh?” 

“In so many ways,” Clint said, taking the water bottle that Bucky was pushing into his hand and sending him a rueful smile. Bucky returned it without any of the cynicism or apology or regret that Clint had half expected; it was open, instead, and genuinely happy. 

“You’ve got freckles sprouting,” Bucky said, reaching to trace over Clint’s skin,one to another, his silver finger beautiful-cold and too gentle to even come close to hurting.


	61. Chapter 61

Clint had been chewing on the skin around his nails, because calluses ripped so satisfyingly and they were a small pain that wouldn’t hold him up or stop him doing his job. They stung, though, when he folded his hands into fists and shoved them deep into the pockets of his sweater. 

“It’s not gonna work,” he said. “Who’re we trying to fool? I -” he sighed and fell back on cliched phrases that he’d used before, the ones that fit so familiar in his mouth. “It’s not you, it’s me. We’ll both be better off this way.” 

Maybe they didn’t have the same cliches in the ‘30s, though, ‘cos Bucky was still just leaning back against the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest and a tiny smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. Clint fumbled for words that’d make things a little clearer, but Bucky spoke before he’d found what he needed. 

“You done?” 

“ _We’re_ done,” Clint said. “That’s what I’m trying to say.” 

Bucky appeared to consider that for a moment, head tilted a little to one side. 

“Nah,” he said. 

Clint blinked. 

“What?” 

This wasn’t how it usually went. Clint was expecting a punch, or some tears, or a yellling match, followed by a week of drinking - except… except this was Bucky, so maybe Clint’d need to be drunk for at least a year. Still, that was the way these things usually went and he wasn’t sure what to do with flat refusal. 

“Sorry, pal,” Bucky said, shrugging. “Not gonna fly.” 

“Are you allowed to refuse to break up with me?” Clint asked, and the absurdity of it would’ve put a smile on his face if it could’ve, but his mouth wasn’t sure it could remember the shape. 

“This isn’t you,” Bucky said. “I know you enough to know when your idiot brain’s taken over.” 

That was what Clint always called it. No one had ever listened before. When he came back a couple days after a snarling match that was dictated entirely by the black pit that hated him from where it squatted in the middle of his stomach, fermented over years from all the bad things he’d forgotten how to disbelieve, he apologised for his idiot brain. The therapist he’d gone to for a while had called it an unhealthy naming practice, would rather he recognised it as depression and PTSD, but those things felt like they weren’t his fault and he wasn’t ready to go with that. 

Clint took a deep breath. Let it out. Flinched a little when strong arms folded around him, but couldn’t stop himself from leaning into the touch. 

“We’ll talk about it when your head’s on right,” Bucky said, voice soft and low against his temple, lips brushing against his hair. “And I promise if you want me to go I’m gone. But as long as there’s a part of you that wants me here -” 

Clint’s arms wrapped around Bucky’s back and he fastened into his shirt there, the fabric twisted tight into his hands. He buried his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, awkwardly bent over and held tight. 

“You scare the shit out of me,” he said, “and I’m such a fuckin’ coward.” He could feel Bucky moving to speak, to refute, but his idiot brain couldn’t take that right now without poisoning it so he rushed out more words. “Please don’t let me go.”


	62. Chapter 62

“So what is it you do everyday?” Bucky asked from the couch, where he’d been sitting long enough that it now perfectly cradled his ass. Clint’s apartment was kind of a mess, and nothing matched, but he had the market cornered on comfortable furniture - if you were gonna be locked down, this was the place to be.

Clint shrugged, shuffling into a pair of sneakers; Lucky was familiar enough with this routine not to get excited, ‘cos he knew he wasn’t getting to go outside.

“You can come with me, if you want?”

Bucky thought about it for a second, then figured - what the hell. It wasn’t exactly gonna disrupt his thriving social schedule right now.

“Sure,” he said, and was rewarded with one of Clint’s prettiest smiles - the slightly bashful one, the one you got when you’d done something he wanted and wasn’t expecting. It was why Bucky hauled himself off the couch a little earlier every day, now, just so he could have coffee ready when Clint woke up.

He pushed himself up off the couch and shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers that Clint had loaned him - a little too big, but good enough for shuffling around the place. Clint had told him it was because he didn’t want the neighbours complaining about the thumping of his boots, but Bucky didn’t think it was incidental that they were the comfiest things he’d ever worn.

“First stop is the roof,” Clint said, and Bucky got to spend a beautiful half hour in the sunshine, basking, as Clint wandered around between the raised beds they’d put in now Grills was gone, checking on plants and pitching slugs off the roof and gathering what produce was okay to gather that day. He called Bucky over to look at the first tomato that was growing, tiny and green and perfectly round, and his transparent delight was a hell of a thing.

They traipsed all the way down to the ground floor after that. Clint grabbed up the sack of mail that had been left just inside the door and slung it over his shoulder. He rifled through the neatly sorted mail, held together with rubber bands, and grabbed out a stack before crossing the lobby to an unobtrusive door.

“This is supposed to be for the Super,” he said, “but mostly that’s me, and Ira’s hips make stairs a bitch these days.”

The man who opened the door was frail and ancient and - probably younger than Bucky, which was always a hell of a trip. Clint handed over the mail and insisted on handing over a cabbage and a handful of carrots, which Ira took with plenty of protest.

“Hey, vitamins,” Clint said, like the guy didn’t live exclusively off frozen pizza, which now Bucky came to think about it probably wasn’t doing him a hell of a lot of good. Clint grinned as Ira gestured as rudely as he could with arthritic fingers. “Just remember Mrs Braglewiscz is coming down at eleven, okay, and if she finds that cabbage in the trash can she’s gonna kick your ass.”

“I’ll kick _your_ ass,” Ira told him, and Clint had to hold onto Bucky he was laughing so hard.

They fed a cat on the second floor, and Clint cleaned out a litter tray while Bucky made himself useful and pet the cat until it was practically melted, purring in his arms. It seemed to stop Clint in his tracks for a second, and he had to shake his head before he told Bucky to put the cat down so he could lock the damned door. Marco was a key worker, Clint told him, and Clint’d offered to help out.

There were plants to water on three, for a family who were quarantined out in Poughkeepsie, and Clint made a few more stops to drop off vegetables here and there. There wasn’t much, but he did what he could with it, and it was late in the afternoon when they finally got back ho- to Clint’s apartment.

They kicked off their shoes by the door, but Bucky took Clint’s wrist before he could move away.

“You’re doing a hell of a job, looking after them all,” he said, and Clint shrugged and ducked his head.

“Someone’s gotta,” he said.

“And who’s looking after you?” Bucky asked, already making plans to go out to the bodega for orange juice, maybe look into where he could get more plants for the roof, ‘cos Clint - no matter his protests - sure as hell needed vitamins too.

There was a pause for a second, Clint chewing on his lip like he was arguing something over with himself before he shook off Bucky’s grip on his wrist and then - careful and gentle and hesitant - took his hand instead.

“You’re doing an okay job,” he said.


	63. Chapter 63

Bucky had withstood torture. Even before he was the Soldier, the things they’d done to him, the experiments they’d tried, and they’d never broken him until they’d managed to remove any him that was left to break. 

Bucky had always endured. He had always stood strong. Against bullies, and against Stevie’s idiot insistence on independence, and against the things that were Wrong and that needed putting Right. 

So how the hell he couldn’t stand up against the tiny mournful noise Clint made in his sleep when Bucky tried to edge out from underneath his arm… 

Bucky’s will was iron and his arm was vibranium and his bladder was - hopefully - steel, ‘cos there was no way he was going anywhere while Clint wanted him there. 


	64. Chapter 64

Kate strapped on a parachute and dived straight into the shaft that descended into the earth, black rock and inky shadow a stark contrast to the lush green and bright sun above. She yodelled a war cry - the echoes distorted it, but he was pretty sure he heard his name in there, and he was equally certain that it was insulting - and Clint rolled his eyes and set up safety points for his own descent. It wasn’t that he was any less daring than Kate, he was just a good foot taller than her and densely packed with muscle, and he honestly wasn’t sure a parachute would slow his descent in time. So she was already well into her explorations when his feet hit the uneven cave floor, his hands a little battered from a tricky overhang near the surface. 

Clint unbuckled his harness and left it where it lay, crossing over to her while he pulled his head lamp out of his pack, because the pool of sunlight was golden and beautiful but the shadows were deep. 

“What’re you thinking?” he said. 

The cave sides were riddled with cracks and narrow openings; this network had been pretty thoroughly explored before, so they weren’t likely to find anything new. This was more about keeping their hands in, holidaying between expeditions, and Natasha - team leader - thought they were crazy for holidaying from caves in caves. She was somewhere topside, basking on a beach and accruing free drinks, and she’d explicitly informed them that if they broke any bones she was gonna laugh down the phone and leave them to die. 

Clint was happy to defer to Kate in Tasha’s absence. He had years of experience to draw on, and his instincts had saved them more than a few times, but Kate was shaping up to be an incredible caver and had a nack for finding passable routes that was close to uncanny. 

She tapped her lips, deep in thought, and Clint listened to the gentle drip of water from across the cave. There was a narrow channel in the rocks above, across from where they had made their descent, and in the monsoon season there was likely a waterfall there that had cut into the rock, leaving a shallow lake that reflected the blue sky above. It was the kind of sight that made Clint wish he had more of an artist’s eye; his photographs were good more because of the setting than because of any input of his own. 

“Well I’m going that way,” Kate eventually decided, gesturing at a passage that was likely less explored than the others, in part because the opening was only about eighteen inches high. “You can wait out here for me and pull me out if I get stuck.” 

“Yeah, and how the hell am I gonna get in to you?” Clint said, folding his arms across his chest. “Just because Natasha ain’t here doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you bury yourself.” 

“Ugh,” Kate said, and made an exasperated gesture at Clint’s shoulders, one that he was familiar with from endless repetition. “ _Fine_. We’ll take that one, then.” 

The opening was strange. Clint walked over to it as Kate sorted out her parachute and climbing harness, leaving them by Clint’s harness rather than attempt to fit them through the narrow tunnel in her pack. 

The rock here was no different to the rest of the cave, but the edges seemed sharp-cut; not as though they’d been tooled into the rock, but as though they were somehow new rather than worn over time. He turned and looked at the ground, where fragments of rock and dust scattered in an arc that looked as though it had been dispersed from the entrance, almost as though it had been blown out. 

“Kate,” Clint said, uncertain, “I’m not sure about this one.” 

“Chicken,” Kate said, succinct, shoving past him to bend down and crawl into the opening. Clint had no choice but to follow, switching on his head lamp before he went in, ‘cos god knew if he was gonna be able to move his arms enough once they got in there. 

There was no feeling like the knowledge of the weight of rock above you. A mixture of unholy terror and impossible peace. The height and the breadth and the depth and the _years_ pressing down against your skin, scraping through your clothes, and the utter insignificance of your presence against it. Clint loved it and hated it and couldn’t live without it, and the tight embrace of the cave around him was worth all the relationships he’d lost over this obsession. 

“Oh shit,” Kate yelped, ahead of him, and her voice was a warning but not one soon enough to stop him when the ground abruptly dropped away. He plunged, head first, down a steep shale slope, the grinding stones clawing at the arms he had crossed over his face. His weight carried him further down the slope than Kate had landed, and he flipped over onto his back and swore long and creative and loud enough to carry back echoes of filth. 

The chamber was incredible. Their head lamps picked out sparks of crystal from the rock, and the roof arched high above them like a vaulted cathedral lost to darkness and time. In the centre of the cave was a rough oblong of stone, like some kind of vast altar, and lying on the altar… 

“Is he dead?” Kate whispered, and Clint shook his head because how could he not be? Eyes closed, and hands - one shining unnaturally in the light - crossed over his chest. His hair was splayed out around his head like a halo, and there was something beautifully profane about the softness of his mouth. 

“I think I get Sleeping Beauty, now,” he said, and Kate made a face. 

“Ew, Clint,” she stuck out her tongue. 

“I’m not saying I’d lay one on him, consent is a thing, I’m just saying that it’d be worth it to wake him up. I mean, look at his goddamn bone structure. _Imagine_ this guy’s smile, holy shit.” 

“I think he’s past waking,” Kate said. 

“Not with you two flapping your gums,” an unfamiliar voice croaked, and their screams echoed off the high ceilings for way too long. 


	65. Chapter 65

The stillness of the rooftop was cracked in two by the mundane sound of an opening door, the crunch of the turning handle, click of the latch, screech of hinges too long left unoiled. They had dismissed the door as a point of ingress because of how long it’d been since anyone had opened it, and because it was entirely possible that there no longer existed a key. 

It wasn’t a subtle entrance, not by any means, and the villain of the week this week wasn’t known for their flamboyance. So Bucky stayed exactly where he was, laid out on his front on a tarp for the purpose, sniper scope serving for binoculars and a tiny growing smile on his face. 

Footsteps crunched across the gravel, and the scuffling of them suggested trailing laces, maybe too-big shoes. They trailed to a halt at his hip, and then he was engulfed in weight and warmth, a fleece blanket that had been held close all the way here. 

“Ugh,” Clint said, like that was a sentence, and then yawned wide and loud enough to almost crack his jaw. 

“Hey honey,” Bucky said, without moving more than a millimeter, “you’re home.” 

“Fuckin’,” Clint agreed, and crunched down onto his knees before making industrious attempts to get under the blanket with Bucky, which he managed surprisingly competently, without interrupting Bucky’s position even a little. 

“Hi,” Bucky said, and Clint grunted back at him, and when Bucky snatched a look a fraction sideways he was attempting to make a pillow out of a bulletproof vest. Fuck, it was good to see him, tousled with tiredness and apparently unbruised, and Bucky spared his hand for just a moment to run his fingers down the line of Clint’s stubbled jaw. “Hey, sweetheart, what’re you doing here?” 

Clint shrugged, the gravel grating a little under his back. 

“Got home,” he said. “You weren’t.” 

“Coulda got some sleep,” Bucky said, as Clint inched over slightly, close enough for body heat without touching, leaving him elbow room. “I woulda been back in the morning.” 

“You weren’t _there_ ,” Clint said, like he was a dumbass, and Bucky utterly failed to bite down on his smile. 

“You’re crazy,” he said, on a frozen rooftop in midwinter, and meant something entirely else. 

“Shh, sleepin’,” Clint mumbled, and hooked his finger into the belt loop at Bucky’s waist. 


	66. Chapter 66

“- got the wrong guy!”

The man who was dragged in front of the king looked as out of place as a mud pie in the castle’s kitchen. He was tall and tattered and would have resembled a scarecrow if his shoulders weren’t so wide. He had straw in his hair and a look of righteous indignation on a face that would probably be quite pleasant if only it wasn’t so bruised. Stephen got the impression that he would have folded his arms across his chest belligerently, only the awkward movement was prevented by one of his arms being strapped tightly against his chest in a sling. 

“You stole my shirt,” Stephen said, and watched with some amusement as the man struggled not to look proud, his face reflecting his thoughts without any real success at disguise. 

“Nah,” he said, after a moment. “Me?” 

“You,” Stephen said. “You stole money from my treasury, and food from my kitchens, and a horse from my stables - who I will be wanting back, by the way. And to top it all off, after making an ill-advised bet in a tavern, you stole the shirt off - well, I believe the bet was ‘off my back’, but ‘out of my closet’ serves just as well.” 

“Prove it,” the man said, making eye contact with Stephen without a trace of fear, and Stephen rather wished he’d made more of an effort cultivating his reputation for being a little more ruthless. That was always what Bucky’d been for. 

“I’m impressed,” Stephen said, and the man’s mouth dropped open, an ungraceful sign of surprise that made him look like the idiot Stephen was certain he wasn’t. “I want to hire you.” 

“You -”

“Bring him,” Stephen said, and walked through the door directly behind his throne, listening to the protesting of the man who was dragged along behind him. He fell silent when they reached the tower room, though. 

It was an impressive sight. The windows looked out over the kingdom from far higher than ought to be possible, because Bucky loved a view. The room was filled with comfortable furniture, beautiful art, every luxury possible, and it was a gilded cage. Heavy bars crossed it, just a little way from the stairs, so Stephen, his captive and the two guards that had dragged him here were pressed tightly together while the man behind the bars had all of the room. 

He wasn’t using it, though. He was standing still and silent, his head tipped forward so his long hair fell across his face, his eyes fixed on Steve with a look of blank malevolence that sent a chill down his spine. 

“Bucky?” 

It wasn’t him, though, it was the man he had found. Barton, the Hawk, the man who amused himself by stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, and who did so with Stephen’s silent blessing. He looked appalled at the appearance of the man in front of them, hurt deep down to the bones of him, and Stephen had suspected - Bucky had been so happy of late, secretive and almost shy - but he felt he had now had it confirmed. 

“Someone has stolen my wizard’s heart,” he said. “I want you to steal it back.”


	67. Chapter 67

Bucky doesn’t know how to take care of himself, and Clint’s honestly not sure that it’s even a Winter Soldier thing. 

He can take care of himself in some ways. He can cook for them both, and he knows how to clean with vinegar and baking soda and borax, whatever the fuck _that_ is. He also knows how to field strip a rifle in 17 seconds, which _may_ be a Winter Soldier thing but only in the speed of it. He knows how to manage money down to the last cent, and what to do if Clint gets a fever, and seventeen ways to escape the building if there’s ever a fire, and when he has any free time he looks kinda helpless and lost with it. 

“C’mere,” Clint says, and Bucky casts around like he’s looking for something undone, and Clint isn’t sure if his need to be useful is a 1930s thing, or a soldier thing, or a big brother thing, or from knowing Steve. “Come _here_.” 

Bucky relents and comes over to where Clint is sitting on the couch, and goes to sit next to him but Clint tosses a throw pillow on the floor. Bucky’s eyes heat up, and yeah that’s something that Clint’s down for a little bit later, but he shakes his head. 

“Sit,” he says, and Bucky is startled into a grin. 

“You sure you don’t want me on my knees?” 

“Nah,” Clint says, and reaches out to tug on Bucky’s fingers, where the skin’s all tough from work. “Not right now.” 

Bucky frowns a little, and there’s something wary in the way that he sits, leaning back against the couch where Clint’s got his knees spread. Clint points the remote at the TV, and when an old black and white episode of the Twilight Zone comes on he can see Bucky’s smile just in the way that he relaxes. 

“Comfy?” he asks, and Bucky presses his cheek against the inside of Clint’s knee for a sec, already pulled right in. 

Clint grins and reaches for the hairbrush he’d bought, starting at the ends of Bucky’s hair and tugging it gently through. Bucky tenses for just a second, but Clint hushes him and he soon settles, the gentle movements of the brush through his hair pulling some of the tension out of his body, too. When Clint moves on to stroking his fingers softly through Bucky’s hair the guy’s practically a puddle, leaning against Clint’s leg with his arm wrapped around it and his hand holding onto Clint’s ankle, absorbed in - Captain Kirk talkin’ to some kinda fairground toy, apparently. 

Clint adds a little more pressure to his strokes, now, massaging Bucky’s scalp, circling his fingers at Bucky’s temples, eventually running his hands down to his neck and shoulders and working out the knots there. 

“Fuck,” Bucky says softly, a little slow and slurred, and Clint grins. 

“Good?” 

“You’re so good to me,” Bucky agrees, and Clint leans forward to kiss the top of his head. 

“It’s okay to let someone take care of you,” he says. 


	68. Chapter 68

The sun is shining and Clint’s mouth tastes like coffee and that under-ripe banana chalky feeling on your teeth, and he’s doing his goddamn best to convince Bucky Barnes not to give him a blow job.

“Steve’s been looking for you,” he says, bobbing around a little to stay in the eyeline of the Winter Soldier, who looks bored and uninterested and eager for this to stop. “He’s been scouring the streets -”

“Kid always did suck at hide and seek.”

Bucky Barnes isn’t how Clint expected him to be, this soon after the fall of Hydra. He’d expected skittish and itchy trigger finger, holed up and hobo, not this guy with the easy Brooklyn drawl and the slink that a cat would be proud of.

“Look,” Bucky says, “if you’re sure you don’t wanna -”

Clint makes a frustrated noise because he - obviously he does want to, Bucky Barnes is the thing that dreams are made of, and if he would stop trying to persuade Clint into fucking him in an alley that would do amazing things for Clint’s state of mind.

“Then I got business to attend to,” Bucky says, and gives a slow and devastating smile to someone just behind Clint’s shoulder, one that Clint would like to snatch in mid-air and keep for his own. “Money don’t grow on trees.”

“Look, I can pay you, I have money,” Clint says, and Bucky’s eyes fix on him again, pale and heartbreak beautiful in the bright sunlight. He smiles, slow and curling, and something in Clint’s gut curls all hot right along with it.

“Well that changes things,” Bucky says, and when the guy behind Clint protests he snarls at him to take a hike, which is almost hot enough to take Clint out at the knees.

*

Bucky tries to nibble on Clint’s neck in the elevator up to his apartment; Clint makes a high-pitched noise and tries to convince himself that it was immediate, when he pushed him away. They’d negotiated a price when they were back on Bucky’s corner, but Clint leans against the front door just as soon as he’s got Bucky inside.

“Look,” he says, and there’s a moment of wild-animal fear in Bucky’s eyes that has Clint immediately raising his hands and stepping away from the front door, hooking the spare key off the hook and tossing it into Bucky’s hands. “You can leave any time, okay, I promise, I just wanted to know how much for the week.”

Bucky names a truly astronomical sum. Clint agrees immediately. He figures Steve’ll tell Stark to let him claim it back. It has the unfortunate side-effect of making Bucky watch him a little warier, but he’s here now, and -

“So how about that suck job?” Bucky asks, and he’s the most gorgeous thing Clint’s ever seen.

“I have a headache,” Clint says, full of selflessness and dignity and so much horny he could die. He retreats upstairs to the bedroom, brain grinding uselessly over how in hell he’s gonna persuade Bucky Barnes back to the side of Steve Rogers within the next week - and how he’s gonna stop him from insisting on sucking his dick in between.


	69. Chapter 69

“...and now who the fuck knows where the whisk has gone -”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve snaps, and Bucky grins directly into the camera, an ‘aw shucks’ kinda grin, the kind that makes his show - _Brooklyn Chef -_ poll particularly well between the women aged 40-60 market.

“Fuck it,” he says with a grin, “you can bleep it out, right?”

Clint’s laughing soundlessly behind the camera, and no matter how hard he’s trying to stay still the shot’s probably jostling a little, and that was maybe the first thing Bucky loved about him - that little edge of imperfection that let Bucky know he was doing good. Like on the dark days, way back in the beginning when he was questioning his ability to do this and make money at it, there was always that barely perceptible tremor where Clint was cracking the fuck up to set him right.

_Not into camera_ , Clint signs, and Bucky snorts.

“Yeah, okay, I’m keepin’ the visible swearing to a minimum, I’m being good,” and Clint’s raised eyebrow is just as expressive as Steve’s muttered _that’ll be the day_ that comes through Bucky’s earpiece.

Clint’s got silent communication with everyone, obviously, but Bucky’s working to learn all his languages. Nothing Clint communicates ain’t worth listening to, and Bucky’s trying to do better at communicating right back - and not just in the bedroom, which is a new and kinda terrifying notion that scares him in the best possible ways.

They’ve got a good thing going, and he wants to let Clint know, which is maybe why he’s a little off his game today, mislaying whisks and swearing into camera and working out how to say what’s gotta be said.

_Fuck it_ , he figures. Quick and simple is his whole shtick, all the way back to when he was cooking on a hotplate and filming this shit on his phone. He’s just gotta get it out there and it’s gonna be fine.

“Okay so now we’re done with the heckling - and I’ve found the fudgin’ whisk,” he says, laying hands on it at last, “I’m gonna beat my eggs and make my pancakes, with peanut butter and banana which is some kinda goddamn travesty but I’m in love so what’re you gonna do?”

(They wind up having to re-do the whole segment, ‘cos Clint drops the camera right then.)


	70. Chapter 70

The elf was waist deep in Bucky’s refrigerator, making absolutely freaking delighted noises about all the crap he was finding in there. And most of it _was_ crap - there’d been a housewarming thing the week before, sprung on him because he was okay with people in his space now but he still wasn’t gonna invite them there. Sam and Steve and Natasha and Tony and Rhodey and a whole bunch of people Bucky barely knew had crowded into his apartment, with bottles of alcohol and those fake cherries and chips and dips and cans of spray cream. 

Maybe he shoulda been to the grocery store since then, but guacamole was practically a vitamin. 

“This is not,” Bucky said, and then grabbed onto the quiver that was slung across the guy’s back, dragging him out to the accompaniment of sad noises, and shutting the refrigerator door almost on his fingers, which were snagging the aforementioned whipped cream. “This is not what I expected from an elf,” he said, and then despaired about everything in that sentence. 

The elf was smirking at him. He could probably tell. He was tall and blond, but that was as far as he resembled a fairytale; he was scruffy and dressed in leaf green and somehow defiant purple, rags and tatters tied on like he’d picked up lost property from around Central Park. That was where Bucky’d found him - that was where Bucky’d _tripped over_ him, lost and scared and breathless in the dark.

See, Bucky didn’t like the way people looked at him when he exercised, didn’t like their encouraging smiles and their pitying eyes. He’d taken to going to the park when it was night, finding somewhere out of the way to work some of the tension out. It’d been kind of a mixed experience, He’d stopped a few muggings, been interviewed by police, been serenaded by a girl in a tree who’d clearly been stoned outta her mind. And then tonight he’d found himself - fuck knows how, fuck knows why - running until he stumbled from the baying of hounds and the beating of hooves against previous civilised grass, his breath tearing at his lungs and his balance fuckin’ shot. He’d stumbled twice before he’d tripped over the asshole leaning against his refrigerator, who had acted offended until he heard the horn, and had then grabbed Bucky and hauled him up a damned tree. 

They’d stayed up there, awkwardly pressed up against each other, the elf’s breath hot on Bucky’s neck as he’d softly shushed him, his arm slipping around Bucky’s waist to hold him safe. It was the closest contact Bucky’d had with anyone that wasn’t Steve in months, and he’d found himself relaxing, somehow, into it. 

And then they’d climbed down from the tree, and the elf had followed him home, and this was either the weirdest dream Bucky’d ever had or something had gone seriously wrong with the universe. 

“I didn’t think this was how fairytales worked,” Bucky said, and the elf grinned, then winced as it pulled on the bruise he had on his cheek. 

“What were you expecting?” 

“I dunno,” Bucky said, flailing for words to put it into. “Wishes and bargains and someone called Peaseblossom, maybe, not a tall hungry guy called Clint. Aren’t you supposed to be trying to trap me in fairyland with an unbreakable bargain, or something?”

“Other way around,” Clint said, spraying his mouth so full of cream that it leaked a little around the edges of his grin. “You fed me, now you’ve gotta keep me.” 


	71. Chapter 71

Clint’s not the greatest at barn cats. They always start out that way - semi-feral, and there to catch mice, and workers rather than pets - but given time they always kinda migrate inside and take on names without his meaning it, and soon enough there’s another cat bed in the parlour. 

(That’s what the realtor had called it. The _parlour._ Clint has no idea what you’re supposed to do with a room like that, so he’s accidentally filled it with cats.)

He honestly doesn’t mean to acclimatise them. He thinks maybe it’s partly the running commentary, ‘cos he’s been alone a while now and he’s always liked the sound of his own voice. He’s been trying to fix up the ride-on mower that had come free with the house, ‘cos no one could get it working, and the cats always like to bathe in the sun stripes that fall where the planks have warped a little with the weather and don’t fit together quite right.

He’s also always been kinda good with feral things. He always used to get into deep shit at home and the foster places and the circus, bringing home injured birds and that angry racoon and the bat in the box. What he’s learned from the internet, later in life, is that he’s a lucky bastard that he’s not dead of rabies, but back at the time he never got bit. He can be patient, and he’s learned not to be loud, and he worked so hard to be different to his dad that he’s got gentle all the way down to his bones. 

He’s looking for Alpine, that day, ‘cos she’s getting near her time and he figures she’s found somewhere to nest up. Clint has got a craigslist ad almost ready to go, because he is bound and determined not to keep all her goddamn kittens, but he’s also started sketching out possibilities for kitty bunk beds on the back of a letter from the bank. 

He finds her curled up happy in the footwell of the mower, bathing the tiny mewling things all swarming around her, and he finds the guy watching her, too. 

Gunpoint is an uncomfortable place to be, he’s over it, but he does what he’s supposed to do and raises his hands slowly, and the running commentary is a nervous side effect that he expects to be shot for at any second. 

Only Clint is kinda good with feral things, and Bucky’s got a name now, and a smile, and there’s no way there’s room for him in the parlour but he’s figuring he might have to get another bed. 


	72. Chapter 72

Bucky had never ascribed much to the idea of hell, but now he knew a little more he didn’t think it burned. No, he was pretty sure that hell was cold. Cold, and dark, and wretched, and lonelier than you could imagine being when you were surrounded by the sniffles and the whimpers and the rough voices of men. Fuck, but it was cold in the trenches, and this corner of heaped sandbags and stolen secrecy was maybe the first time in his whole goddamned life he had ever truly known warm. 

“I oughta feel worse about this,” Bucky said, voice low, his thumb brushing against the ring on Clint’s left hand. It was cleaner than it ought to be, the way mud was caked under Clint’s nails, and in the grain of his skin. “Not as bad as you should, maybe, but -” 

Clint’s arms tightened a little around him, and Bucky hitched on a small, cold, trembling sorta smile as Clint kissed his temple, the side of his face. 

“You gonna tell her, when you get back?”

Clint’s breath was warm, too, tucked into the crook where Bucky’s neck met his shoulder, the kinda place you hunched down to protect when the bullets were flying, even though any place was a filthy place to get hit. Vulnerable, that was what it was, and that was what Clint was too, ‘cos his breath hitched in the middle like it was caught up and tied in barbed wire. 

“Maybe it’ll be easier for her,” Bucky said dreamily, “if I don’t make it outta here. Maybe she’ll forgive you.” 

The soft noise Clint made sounded torn out of him. Bucky leaned back and rested his head on Clint’s shoulder, turned his head so he could brush a kiss to his cold, grimy cheek. It was a risk, doin’ this where they could so easily get caught, but what the fuck wasn’t in a place like this? And it was worth it for how Clint turned his head to meet him, opened his warm mouth to Bucky’s, kissed him gently like he was dying. 

“Maybe don’t tell her you said you loved me, though,” he whispered, ‘cos if he said it too loud the universe might overhear, and this wasn’t the kinda place you got to keep things like that. 

“I love you,” Clint whispered back, fervent and honest and unafraid, “and you’re gonna make it out of this, and someday you’re gonna understand -” 

He moved, his arms pressing a little closer against Bucky’s sides as he grabbed his ring with his right hand, tugging at it like it was welded in place. Felt like Bucky’s breath froze solid in his chest when Clint took hold of his hand next, pushing the ring onto his finger like it was made to sit there, weaving their fingers to hold it in place where it was a little too big. 

“Clint,” Bucky croaked, because he didn’t know the shape of this cold hurt, he didn’t know how the hell to rebuild himself around it. 

“It’s yours,” Clint said, impossible warmth against the shell of his ear, “I promise, I _promise_ it’s gonna be yours, you’ve just gotta make it through.” 


	73. Chapter 73

Bucky sounded broken open when you fucked him, like he expected it to hurt and didn’t know why it didn’t. Bucky bought vaseline from the bodega on the corner and swore like a goddamned sailor when Clint introduced him to lube. Bucky pushed back against him and rocked forward into Clint’s hand like he couldn’t work out which felt better, and kissed fast and clumsy, and breathed out like sobbing and laughter and everything that took you like that, hitching and helpless and lost. 

Bucky sounded broken open when you fucked him, like he was made of porcelain and glass, pale right through to transparent, every expression on his face revealing everything. He let out soft whimpers and desperate gasps, and he tossed his head and arched his back like he was hoping he could hide his face, and he turned his mouth against Clint’s cradling hand like he could keep secret the kisses he hid there. 

Bucky sounded broken open when you fucked him, like he didn’t know what the fuck this was, like he didn’t understand how this could be his. He breathed out Clint’s name like it was a holy word, like some kinda sacrament, and Clint had no idea how the fuck he was gonna deserve this but he was, he would, he needed to desperately because he couldn’t give it up. 

Bucky sounded broken open when you fucked him, and Clint was gonna love him well enough to make sure no one else ever knew. 


	74. Chapter 74

Bucky wakes up and Clint’s sitting hunched over on the end of the bed, and Bucky thinks, y’know, maybe he can make it a sex thing. The way he wants to trail his mouth up the line of Clint’s spine, every inch of it, appreciating the beauty of it with the gentle touch of his lips. Maybe if he bites the nape of Clint’s neck they can both ignore the tenderness that came before it. 

He sits up against the headboard, bunching his hands into fists in the sheet so he doesn’t give in to the urge to slide his fingers gently over Clint’s shoulders, pull him upright and against Bucky, ask him what’s wrong. They don’t do that. That’s not what this is. 

“What’s the disaster?” Bucky asks, loud against the early quiet, snarkier than he wants it, “you run out of coffee?” 

Clint mumbles something, and that’s - that’s a reason, right? That makes it okay for Bucky to shuffle out from under the sheets and crawl closer, settling so body heat is almost a touch. 

“Gotta make words if you want me to hear ‘em,” he says. 

“I want to make you breakfast,” Clint says, despairing. The tone and the words are such a mismatch that Bucky can’t even process for a second. 

“What?”

“I bought eggs,” Clint says, like somebody just died, and when he turns to face Bucky his face is carved into miserable lines. “I’m sorry man, we’ve gotta stop fucking.” 

Bucky blinks, not sure he’s even woken up, ‘cos this is the kinda talk you have in your dreams - everyone acting like it all makes sense, while you stand around in your first grade classroom wondering how the hell they fit all the Dodgers in here with you. 

“I don’t -” Bucky says, but apparently Clint’s not done. 

“I’m not supposed to want to make you breakfast and kiss the places I bruised you and run you a bath and get my feelings all over you. Shit,” he says, and scrubs a hand over his face. The sun’s just starting to peek around the edges of the blinds, and it sparks gold in Clint’s stubble and his hair, and it grows a smile on Bucky’s face like photosynthesis. He leans in, slow and unstoppable, and presses the smile against the soft skin at the nape of Clint’s neck. 

Clint goes still, ‘cos Bucky’s never been this gentle with him before. 

“What’re you doing?” he says, and Bucky shifts his mouth a quarter of an inch, the kinda pace that - if you’re gonna be thorough - means he’s gonna be here all day. 

“Gettin’ my feelings all over you,” Bucky says. “It’s gonna take a while.” 


	75. Chapter 75

Bucky’s just about ready to kill someone when he descends the stairs into the basement bar, maybe Steve - for dragging him out here, when all he wants to do is drink beer and become one with his couch - most of all. It’s been a long goddamn week, somehow involving fielding customer service calls alongside his regular tech support, ‘cos the new game release is buggy as all hell and Bucky manages to bite back his swearing until Friday, end of day. 

Fuck this fuckin’ fuck of a week, frankly. 

Tech support was only supposed to be an interim kinda job, until he found what it was he wanted to do. Only it’s something that can be done with one hand tied behind your back - or left behind in Iraq - and actually offers health insurance that covers his therapy bills. He figures he’s stuck with it until his head’s on a little straighter, and he’s queer enough in every possible way that it ain’t gonna happen soon. 

It’s hot and dark and close in the bar, all the things that Bucky hates; there are mirrors on the wall that he knows are gonna freak him out later, there’re drinks menus with multiple pages which means it’s gonna be a queue every time at the bar, and there’s a hen party in the corner with penis straws that he wants to steal. 

Maybe it ain’t all bad. 

Bucky dumps his coat on Steve, nods hello to Sam and Natasha and heads to the bar. Offering other people drinks is for people that can afford them - and carry them. There’s exactly the crowd he expected pressed up against the sticky surface, and Bucky scowls and prepares himself for a long goddamn wait. 

Cocktail bars are a fuckin’ bane on society. There’re innumerable bottles on the back shelf, silver shakers every couple inches, sprigs of mint and sticks of celery and weirdly carved fruit that Bucky doesn’t recognise. Everything is brightly coloured and has stupid suggestive names, and there should be an express lane at one side of the bar for the poor bastards who just want a goddamned beer. 

He’s on his toes to see what kinda selection they’ve got in the fridges, ‘cos Bucky’s built like a brick wall but the brick wall is unfortunately short, when a spinning glint of silver catches his eye. He ain’t the only one, apparently - this guy’s performance is drawing oohs and ahs out of all the idiots waiting, even the ones that Bucky can sense just want a damned PBR. 

The guy’s tall enough that even Bucky can see what he’s doing, skilled hands shaking and flipping and tossing the cocktail shaker, the time between tosses used to add ice and garnishes and sugar around the rim. There’re a couple dicey moments, but Bucky - sniper’s eyes - catches on that it’s all a part of the performance, ‘cos the guy’s throws never go where they ain’t meant to. He’s always had a thing for hands, and this guy’s got a good pair of ‘em, long-fingered and skilled and precise. He’s got the sleeves of his shirt rolled up a little way, light catching gold sparks from the hair on his forearms, and further up the sleeves cling to arms that make Bucky’s mouth a little dry. His collar’s unbuttoned, open down far enough to see the notch of his clavicle, the shadow there a tease that Bucky wants to get his tongue all over, and then he looks up to the guy’s face. 

He’s gut-punch beautiful. Not obvious, not to those who ain’t looking - he’s unshaved and his nose’s been broken a few times, he’s got a bandaid down the line of his jaw, and he’s got a crooked eye-tooth which snags the edge of his smile. But he’s gut-punch beautiful in the way that when he catches Bucky’s eye - blue like sea-bright mornings and holding the irresistible spark of a smile - Bucky feels like someone’s socked him in the belly, stealing all his breath. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, and he would swear that sly sideways wink is all for him.


	76. Chapter 76

The video call ringtone sounds through his living room, and Alpine curls around the doorframe from his bedroom at the first obnoxious beep. Clint insists that it’s ‘cos Bucky feeds her right after they’re done; Bucky teases him about how much Alpine loves Clint’s face, which is becoming more and more unsubtly transference every goddamn day. Either way she comes to curl up in the crook of Bucky’s warmer arm, pawing at the screen when the ringtone echoes a little too long.

When the screen finally lights up into an image it’s a different one than usual. Instead of Clint’s face - which is becoming scruffier and scruffier as the weeks go by, his hair getting longer and softer and more tempting with every day that passes - the view is of Clint’s apartment. An odd sort of angle on it, too. It seems like the computer’s down at ankle height, showing an expanse of floor that could do with a sweep, a pyramid of beer cans leaning drunkenly against the kitchen counter and not one sign of life.

“Clint?”

It takes a second for the slight movement to register; the camera’s moving gently up and down, almost in pace with Bucky’s breathing.

“Bad day, huh?” Bucky says.

There’s a long sigh, from just below of the camera’s field of view. A blur of movement - like the laptop almost tipped over off his chest - and then there’s a jumbled view of Clint’s mouth and chin before he’s got himself sorted, clearly holding the laptop up over himself, the shot framed by Clint’s beautiful biceps and his face surrounded by all the detritus on the floor.

“Hey, Buck,” he says. His voice is low and tired-sounding, and he’s got purple bags under his eyes, and he looks soul-deep dragging miserable. Mostly Bucky wants to wrap him up in a blanket - or his arms - and shove him back into bed, which is a new kinda low, because his bed-related imaginings are usually a hell of a lot more creative than that.

“Hey,” Bucky starts, but Clint’s already talking again.

“Not gonna be entertaining company today,” Clint says, and the view spins as he sets the laptop back on his chest, but not before Bucky sees a telltale glint of silver slip sideways outta his eye. “You’ve probably got better things to do -”

“Nothing’s better than talking to you,” Bucky says, and the laptop’s next trip downward is a little shakier. “I ever tell you about the time Steve and me accidentally hijacked the Staten Island ferry?”

Clint’s ‘no’ is a little thick, and he’s maybe not so responsive as usual, not at first, but by the end of the story Bucky’s got him laughing, and Alpine’s just about ready to start gnawing at Bucky’s face.

“You should probably go,” Clint says, ‘cos honestly it’s getting a little hard to make himself heard over Alpine’s protests, so Bucky unplugs the laptop and carries it with him to the kitchen, filling Alpine’s bowls while he tells Clint all about his first job. It’s nothing talk, anecdotes and stories, descriptions of people he’s remembered and ones that Steve’s told him he once knew. He refuses to let Clint hang up on him when the guy has to use the bathroom, and he heckles his pizza choices when he microwaves a couple slices - first thing, Clint says, a little abashed, that he’s eaten all day.

Eventually Bucky’s sprawled out sideways on his bed, head pillowed on his bicep, Clint’s face - finally on screen - pillowed in a mirror of his position, and wearing the slightest smile.

“Thanks for this,” Clint says. He’s become a little more talkative over the evening, although he’s still not contributing much; Bucky’s throat is kinda sore, but there’s worse he’d do for Clint.

“Well it ain’t the way I’d thought about getting you into bed, but it’ll do for now.”

Clint’s eyes widen, lamplight dyeing the blue darker, and Bucky bites his tongue, hoping like hell that - for this - Clint’s got something left to say.


	77. Chapter 77

It’s been sixteen days that Clint’s been out in the black, and Bucky is pretty sure he’s the only one that thinks the guy is still alive. 

He can understand it - the tub had been leaking atmo like a Phr’yl Warden leaks self-satisfaction, and the vis-screen had shown that Clint was bleeding in at least three places, and those were just the places they could see. He can understand the mourning, and the flares they’d fired into the black, and how they’d all taken something to remember him by. The pitying glances are maybe the worst, when Bucky insists that they don’t divide up the rest of Clint’s shit just yet, but he - 

Yeah, okay. Maybe it ain’t exactly a belief. Maybe it’s a worn-thin clung-tight hope wound between tired fingers, and maybe he can’t bring himself to let it go. 

Even with Stark’s funding they’re all piled up tight together in the ship, bunked up and hard to avoid, and Bucky can’t fathom how Clint has made it feel somehow empty. The common space is missing his feet crossed on the crate there, and the bunk room is missing his snoring, and everyone’s taking turns flying from the co-pilot’s chair ‘cos they can’t bring themselves to sit where he ain’t. Bucky sometimes takes his bunk, though, lit by the gentle flickering light of the holopics Clint collects; he’s got scratched up images of creatures and seas and grasslands and ships, things that he remembered or wanted or had never seen. He’s got Bucky, too, captured with the rest of the crew, here a blank expression, and there a scowl, and one gently stuttering grin. Bucky hadn’t known he’d ever looked at someone the way he looks in that holopic. Hadn’t thought he’d been that clear. 

He rolls himself out of Clint’s bunk, wrapping the fuck-ugly purple blanket around him before he shuffles out into the common room and through to the bridge. Natasha’s in the co-pilot’s chair, which is the best possible option; she has the same aching wound he won’t admit that he’s suffered, and she never tries to make him talk. 

She sucks in a breath, when he sits in Clint’s chair. Feels like it takes all the air outta the goddamn room. 

“I shoulda told him,” Bucky says, low and raw. Natasha flips a switch that doesn’t much need flipping, just for something to do with her hands. 

“He knew,” she says, and her smile looks like it hurts. “He was waiting.” 

it hurts like a gut shot. It hurts like a fuckin’ admission. 

“I -” he starts, but he’s cut off by a crackle from the hailer, followed by the succession of tones that says whoever the message is from they’ve sometime been counted as crew. Sure as hell doesn’t match up with the Vaktash cruiser the computer starts screaming about half a second later, now that it’s in range. 

Natasha scrambles for the hailer, giving out the ship’s ident and asking curtly for theirs in turn. Instead there’s a cackle of familiar laughter that makes Bucky choke up with all the saltwater he couldn’t bring himself to waste. 

“Hey Tasha,” Clint says, loud and obnoxious and the best thing Bucky’s ever heard, “didja miss me?” 


	78. Chapter 78

“The hell kind of time do you call this?” 

The Asset stopped, his hand clenching uselessly around the hilt of his knife, still too far away to make it do anything useful. 

“I am starving, I am pissed, and my ass hurts like -” The man swung around, his eyes a piercing blue that photographs didn’t do justice to, and - credit to him - instantly had the Asset at arrowpoint, his evident surprise having no effect on his aim. “You’re not Natasha,” he said. “You move like - why the hell do you move like Natasha?” 

The Asset moved his hand - just slightly - and Hawkeye drew his bow back further. With the draw on that thing, with their proximity, it would punch straight through the Asset’s body armour, and likely out the back as well. He gave up on his gun and spread his hands a little.

“I am not your enemy,” he said. 

This was... not directly true, but still true enough that he could allow it to himself; it was close enough to mission parameters that there was no direct contravention. The Widow was to be taken out on sight; Hawkeye was to be taken out if he presented any difficulties, and the Asset had had enough weapons pointed at him over the past three days to barely consider this a hitch. 

“That’s more of a subjective thing,” Hawkeye said. “Pretty sure me and that knife are likely to have a disagreement.” 

The Asset spun the knife around and tucked it back into the sheath on his forearm - it was easily retrieved at a moment’s notice, after all. 

“That is not as comforting as you think it is,” Hawkeye said, amusement in his voice, but it was enough to have him easing a little of the tension on the bowstring, his muscles relaxing just slightly. 

“We have a common goal,” the Asset told him, and Hawkeye laughed. 

“Wow, he’s on Hydra’s naughty list too, huh? Guy really is a dick.” He watched the Asset thoughtfully for a moment and then lowered his bow. It was nothing more than a gesture - the Asset was well aware of how quick the man was on the draw, and the small rebellious part of him wanted to test his speed against Hawkeye’s, half convinced he would lose. It was a tempting thought. 

Instead he crossed the roof, feet almost silent on the gravelled surface, Hawkeye moving to keep him in view until they were almost side by side and looking at the distant building where the target would appear. 

“Guy really is a dick,” he said, after a long contemplative moment, and he didn’t quite understand the warmth that flooded through him at the way that Hawkeye laughed. 

“Okay,” the man said, grinning all over his face, “Natasha’s gonna kill me, but okay. Lost kitten protocol activated. But - and I cannot state the importance of this one enough, do _not_ try to fight me on it - _you’re_ the sidekick.” 


	79. Chapter 79

This is not permitted. The Asset can feel it like fire ants crawling up his back, the knowledge that the pain is inevitable, the knowledge that it is already too late. This is not permitted; the corridor is like any of the others that he can roam, nothing to make it unique save the fact that _he is not allowed here,_ and the consequences - while never defined - will be terrible.

The sceptre is lighter than he would have thought and prickles with an unsettling aura that stands the hair up at the nape of his neck. It feels wrong. He is not certain that he has ever known right, precisely, but the sceptre feels wrong like the chair does, and like bleeding out.

The corridor mirrors the one where they keep him. A simple kitchen bare of knives and most appliances, a bathroom with the same ring of rust around the drain of the bare shower. At the end, a dark and reinforced door. They make him sleep in the chair room, curled up on a threadbare blanket like a dog. The coffin of ice is kept elsewhere for now, somewhere that is blessedly without him, and he does not question it and he does not question it and he waits and the fire ants crawl.

Perhaps that is what this is. Not a rescue mission at all, but disobedience that will bring on the end of waiting and the bliss of the bite. Certainties are, after all, all that he has.

He takes a deep breath and turns the handle. The sceptre, unregarded, trails along the floor behind him and scrapes over stone.

The lack of a chair is like a gap where a tooth used to be, that same sense of jarring absence and waiting pain. He is so busy looking at it - at where it should be - that it takes him a second to see the blond man again.

They had not meant the Asset to see him, that was clear from the whipcrack of the Handler’s voice. They had not meant the Asset to see something he recognised in the man’s expression - the man’s lack of expression - that had settled and festered and grown.

They had certainly not meant for the Asset to find the sceptre, and disobey orders, and make his way here.

The man’s eyes glow unnaturally blue when Bucky brings the sceptre close, when he touches it - like some kind of sick sacrament - to the centre of the man’s forehead. A small droplet of blood wells there, and when it tickles down between his brows and trails down the side of his nose the man blinks, and shudders, and scoots back so hard he cracks his head against the wall.

“You’re safe,” the Asset tells him, because it is apparently long enough since the chair that he has learned how to lie.

“Oh god,” the man says, “oh fuck, what did I _do_?”


	80. Chapter 80

“And who’s that?” Bucky asked, nodding over at the guy in the purple spandex, who had his blond hair all disordered from where a pointy purple mask had been pushed up into it. 

“He’s a minor annoyance.” 

“I’m Cap’s nemesis,” the guy said, at practically the same time, and Steve rolled his eyes. It was a delightful change from the stick-up-ass persona that he’d apparently adopted since Bucky’d been gone, and it made the other blond guy grin. 

“You can keep saying that all you want, Hawkeye,” Steve said, “but it doesn’t make it true.” 

Hawkeye - which was a frankly ridiculous name, to go with the costume, and the archaic weaponry that no one had apparently cared enough to take away - grinned and hopped up to sit on the kitchen counter, folding his arms across his chest. The lack of sleeves was maybe the one aesthetic choice that Bucky couldn’t fault about the outfit; archery apparently made for fuckin’ incredible arms. 

“I’m a criminal mastermind,” Hawkeye argued. “Why else would you be keeping me locked up in Stark’s mansion? Gotta keep me under your eagle eye.” 

“That doesn’t make you special, pal,” Bucky said. “Steve’s a control-freak and a nosy old woman.” 

“Fuck you,” Steve said, and Hawkeye’s mouth dropped open and into a delighted grin. 

“You’re as bad as Nana Barnes,” Bucky said, pointing at Steve accusingly, “and you know I don’t say that lightly.” 

“You know,” Hawkeye said, giving Bucky a beautifully suggestive grin, “Tony enjoys winding Steve up almost as much as I do, but I think you might be my new favourite.” 

Bucky grinned, slowly, looking the guy up and down. Steve looked horrified for a moment, pointing between the two of them. 

“No,” he said. “No, no way, this is not happening, you guys are not -” 

“You ain’t the boss of me, Stevie,” Bucky said, and stepped up to the counter, right between Hawkeye’s knees. 

“Oh fuck you both,” Steve said, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Hah, nemesis,” Hawkeye managed, just before Bucky distracted him pretty goddamn thoroughly.


	81. Chapter 81

Clint had begged off early, citing the lack of any kinda superpowers as a reason not to try to keep up. The alcohol had kept flowing once he was gone, and even Bucky was starting to feel it, otherwise he never would’ve had the balls to do this. 

“Hey,” he whispers into the dark room, musty with sleep, “you got space?” 

Clint mumbles something unintelligible but there’s the sound of fabric moving together that Bucky can readily identify as Clint lifting up the sheets for him. Bucky makes his way over, avoiding obstacles with the ease of long practice, and settles on the edge of the mattress long enough to kick his boots off before rolling himself under the sheets. 

See, the thing Bucky’s discovered about Clint, about drunk Clint, is that he’s the snuggliest bastard to ever exist. He’s demanding, too, knows exactly where he wants you, folds himself around you just right even when he’s still breathing slow with sleep. It’s bare moments before Bucky’s wound in and held tight, the scratch of Clint’s stubble tucked into the crook of his neck. 

“You gonna sleep in those?” Bucky asks, and Clint grumbles but loosens his hold enough that Bucky can wriggle around so they’re facing, can gently switch off and unhook Clint’s BTE hearing aids. He goes to turn over again, deposit them on the bedside table, but Clint tightens his hold for a second and won’t let him move. 

“Thanks,” he says, it’s all he says, but it comes with a brush of lips against the vulnerable skin just in the hollow of Bucky’s collarbone, and it - it could be accidental, it could be drunken clumsiness, but it still sets something fluttering in Bucky’s stomach. Mouth dry, hands carefully loose so he doesn’t accidentally crush the aids along with all the fragile hopes he’s been carrying, Bucky ducks down enough that he can press a kiss to Clint’s forehead - about the only part of him he can reach. 

Gently warm beer-scented air is breathed out against his skin, a long sigh that could hold a thousand meanings, and then Clint pulls back. It’s fuckin’ dark in here, too dark to get more than the barest outline of things, and Bucky has no chance of reading Clint’s expression, only has the hope that he hasn’t fucked this up. 

“You finally ready?” Clint says, and he sounds more awake than Bucky’d credited him with. 

He’s not gonna hear any answer Bucky comes up with, and they all boil down to basically the same thing. Bucky shuffles forwards across the barest space that’s still left between them and kisses - Clint’s chin, actually, ‘cos it’s still fuckin’ dark, but the readjustment comes from both of them and when he tries again he can feel that Clint’s smiling. 


	82. Chapter 82

Clint goes down under a pile of the creatures, and Bucky would give anything to go help him out but it’s all he can do to keep standing himself. It’s not like they’re that tough, small sinewy things with bladed weapons and sharp teeth, but the sheer numbers are pretty overwhelming and the Avengers have been doing this for nigh on an hour, now. Even Thor looks like he’s getting tired, and Bucky doesn’t know how the hell Clint and Sam are still standing. 

Except Clint’s not. 

Steve’s order to incapacitate falls by the goddamned wayside, because Bucky’s priorities shift just as soon as Clint goes down, his entire being freezing around the core of panic that Clint’s not gonna be okay. He - he doesn’t think he could deal with Clint not being okay. 

It’s with a healthy shot of relief that he sees Bruce wade in, flinging the creatures left and right behind him as he goes in after Clint, and Bucky figures he can leave him in the Hulk’s capable hands while he deals with the little bastards in front of him. 

Eventually the numbers start to thin and Bucky has time to think again, and like always the first thing he thinks about is Clint. Seems like a long time since he was able to think about much else, given the time. 

The guy’s lying on his back on the asphalt but he’s not unresponsive, the heels of his palms pushed against his eyes but a grin underneath them as he listens to something Sam’s saying. Natasha walks over, and she’s closer than Bucky so she’s already mid-tirade when Bucky arrives. 

“- at a distance,” she’s saying, and Clint is wincing at the volume of her voice. “That’s the entire point of your weapon, and it was the orders you were given, and -” 

“And Bucky was getting overwhelmed,” Clint protests, his voice rough and softer than usual. “I wasn’t gonna let Bucky get overwhelmed.” He reaches out with one hand, just about able to hook his hand around Bucky’s ankle. “Hey Bucky.” 

“You gonna get your ass off the ground any time soon?” Bucky asks, because he’s honestly not great at people skills, especially when he’s still awash with the adrenaline of thinking that something bad had happened to the idiot on the floor. 

“Gimme a hand?” Clint says, holding his own up a little pathetically, but the weight he entrusts to Bucky is a pretty good indication that Clint couldn’t’ve stood up on his own, and Bucky’s ready to grab him when he wobbles and almost falls. 

Natasha insults him soundly in Russian, but her voice is carefully softer this time. 

“Concussion?” she asks, and Clint gives a rueful smile. 

“At least we know the routine.” 

“You’re gonna have to teach me,” Bucky cuts in, wrapping his arm firmly around Clint’s waist. “No way you’re getting rid of me until I know you’re okay.” 

It ain’t much - people skills - but it’s enough of a declaration to have Natasha looking at him with approval, to have Clint squinting up at him with a muzzy and cross-eyed kinda hope. 


	83. Chapter 83

Clint’s porch has a whole bunch of discordant jangles, wind chimes strung together from things he’s found around the farm, and occasional things that other people have left behind. Natasha always looks a little disappointed with him when the one-night-stand wind chime hasn’t grown any from before; she likes how long it’s been since the one with all the bullet casings has changed tone. 

The morning’s a gentle one, only the occasional clink, and the sky’s filled with bright white cloud cover that diffuses the light of the sun. He coulda been out here for a couple of minutes or a few hours, there’s no real way to tell. Well, aside from his coffee cravings, maybe, and the aching of his hip. He eventually pushes himself to his feet, the porch swing swaying out from underneath him, and sets the coffee machine to burbling. Lucky’s snoring inelegantly from his bed in the mudroom and Felix the ex-barn-cat is coiling around Clint’s ankles, purring fit to bust. Days like this one makes him think maybe retirement ain’t that bad after all. 

There’s a breeze breathing against the back of Clint’s neck. It’s warm outside but he’d settled himself out on the porch before the house had got much sun, so he doesn’t remember propping any of the sash windows open. Once, when he was still freshly out on the farm, when he was still having to use the cane that mostly just hangs off the back of the kitchen door now, that would’ve been a warning sign. Would’ve kicked up his adrenaline and had him fishing the shotgun out from the umbrella stand by the door. Now, he feels his mouth curling in a treacherous little grin. 

He grabs another mug from out of the cupboard, the one with the robots and the chipped handle that always gets the most complaints. He pours both mugs full, black and bitter, and then goes to open up the back door so Felix can explore some, so he can take a look at the still-crooked railing there. 

Sure enough, there’s a packet of his favourite coffee, the kind he can only get online. Next to it is a bullet casing, shiny and brightly new, and there’s a neat little hole drilled into it and a far less precise scratched-on star. Clint snags it and puts it in the drawer of odds and ends where he keeps spare batteries for his hearing aids, and scotch tape, and string; all the most important stuff that he has. There are a good few bullet casings rattling around in there now, and Clint’s starting to think maybe there’ll be enough for a chime soon. He’s starting to think he’ll have to hang it somewhere that there’s plenty of room to grow. 

Then he grabs both the mugs and heads for the stairs, limping up them carefully so as not to spill. Up to where there’s someone worn out and bruised and waiting for him, still not certain enough to come in through the front door. Maybe next time Clint’ll find the guts to swap another shiny near miss for the glint of a freshly-cut key.


	84. Chapter 84

“Ow, Jesus!” Clint lashed out with the frying pan again, smacking the guy’s elbow hard enough that he finally let go of the knife which spun across the floor and disappeared under the TV stand.

Wasn’t like it won him much breathing room - almost before Clint could blink the guy had another knife in his hand, although he didn’t strike straight away, looking warily at the dented cookware Clint still held.

“What the fuck?” Clint asked, plaintive. “What’d I ever do to you?” He must’ve done something, he reasoned, although he couldn’t think what; he was pretty sure he would’ve remembered someone with a face like that, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he’d pissed off someone he’d never met.

“It ain’t personal,” the man said. He flicked long hair back out of his face, made a perfunctory lunge forward with the knife that Clint smacked away with the flat of the pan. “I’m just doin’ my job.”

“How much did you get paid for this?” Clint said, stumbling backwards out of reach of the knife again, wishing like hell he hadn’t kidproofed his apartment in advance of babysitting Simone’s kids. If this guy had attacked Clint in the goddamned bedroom, this would’ve been a different story.

“Twenty grand advance, twenty grand on proof of completion,” the guy said. “And no offence man, but I need the money.” He steeled his jaw, and Clint only had time to swear faintly before he was backing away again, wielding the frying pan with accuracy born of desperation.

“Well how about -” _CLANG_ “- I pay you fifty grand -” _CLUNK_ “- to make you stop?”

The vibration of metal on metal finally numbed Clint’s fingers enough that he let go of the frying pan. He was backed up against the wall now, no place to go, and he closed his eyes and waited for the end.

There was a long pause.

“I’m listening,” the guy said.

*

It was just over a week later and Clint was arguing with the guy at the bodega again, ‘cos he kept selling Mrs Rodriguez - who could barely see any more - expired cartons of milk.

“Yeah, well maybe I’ll call the FDA on you, huh, how d’you like that?” Clint yelled, then ducked the egg that came flying out after him.

“You want me to kill him for you?” a weirdly familiar voice asked, and Clint almost tripped himself over as he spun around.

The killer-for-hire looked a hell of a lot different out of his assassin clothes. Not that the whole leather bondage look hadn’t been hot, but in plaid and denim and with his hair tied back in a scruffy bun, the guy was the kind of stunning that looked out of place on a cracked sidewalk in Bed-Stuy.

“What?” Clint asked, taken aback, and his brain function gave up completely when the man slowly smiled. Holy _shit_ , he was stunning.

“One murder, bought and paid for,” he said. “Want it to be him?”

“No, I -” what the fuck. What the _fuck_. “No, I just wanted you to stop killing _me_ , I didn’t - I don’t have anybody I want you to kill!”

“Okay,” the guy shrugged, shoved his hands in his back pockets, rocked back on his heels. “Guess I’ll just keep comin’ around until you do.”


	85. Chapter 85

Even up this high there’s no kinda breeze, and Clint is lying on his back on the rooftop gravel under the collapsed remains of the sunshade he’d tried to rig up, too hot and sweaty and listless to bother disentangling. He’d held out some hope that he could persuade Lucky to drag it off him, but his dog’s sprawled out in the shade by the wall, asleep and panting, looking miserable in the heat.

“Okay,” he tells the sky, “you win, I’m gonna buy one of those window units just as soon as I get downstairs, just gimme enough cloud cover to get there.”

For a moment he thinks a miracle’s happened. For a moment he believes in some kinda impossible higher power, ‘cos a shadow falls over him. Clouds, however, are never that sarcastic.

“Wow,” the guy says. He’s just a silhouette with no identifying features, no weirdly shaped accessories to clue Clint in, ‘cos supervillains take no pride in their appearance these days. The guy with him, though - _he’s_ interesting, ‘cos there aren’t that many people whose limbs glint in the sun.

“It’s the wrong season for you,” he says, and who knew you could tell when a silhouette rolled its eyes? Clint struggles to pull himself out from under the folding chairs and blankets and the silver hand cocks a gun and points it at Clint’s head.

“C’mon man,” he says, raising his hands and attempting to block out the sun with one of them, so he can get a better look at what he’s dealing with here. “I’m boiling alive under here, have a little sympathy.” He squints, and then winces. “Although, jesus, that leather on a day like this - don’t get me wrong, it’s a _good_ look, but you must be melting.”

“Do not speak to the asset,” the first man snaps, and Clint snorts.

“So, what, he’s the asset and you’re the asshole?”

He could almost believe that the Winter Soldier’s mouth quirks up, just a little, but it’s probably just a trick of the absolutely overwhelming light.

“A pathetic showing,” the Asshole says. “On your feet. We have plans for you.”

“Well okay,” Clint says, scuffing through the gravel as he gets to his feet, palming a couple of stones as he does. It ain’t much, but it’s amazing what you can do with incredible aim. “But just so you know I don’t kiss on the first date.”

“Keep talking and I will reconsider whether you are worth keeping alive,” Asshole says, and turns on his heel, heading for the roof access door. He’s shorter and slighter than both the Winter Soldier and Clint, and Clint eyes the Asset thoughtfully.

“Hey,” he says, half under his breath, “you throw him off the roof and I’ll get you a popsicle.” For a moment, it kinda looks like the other guy is considering it.


	86. Chapter 86

King Steven had made many changes since his return from the war, and amongst the first of those were the changes that prevented the criminalisation of any kind of love. That was how he’d put it, at least; Bucky insisted on saying that Steve wanted everyone to fuck how they and their partners pleased, and made sure to thank him most effusively in exactly those terms. Especially when the court was gathered and in their finest clothes. 

He knew that there had been complaints about him. Steve liked to gather them and read him the choicest passages, threatened to write them into a letter of recommendation for him if he ever dared to leave. Bucky had long since resigned himself to spending his life protecting the idiot, so the threat held very little weight. 

What it all meant was that the masks that were worn in the houses of assignation were now a sop to anonymity for the illicit thrill of it, rather than against the threat of arrest. Many men had now dispensed with them all together, and Bucky couldn’t help feeling some curling warmth at the happiness on some of their faces now that they met there out of habit rather than necessity, now that they could openly touch and be touched. 

Bucky kept the mask. He had no desire to make anything more complex than the scratching of a persistent itch, and it was rare indeed that he did so more than once with the same man. 

Rare - but not impossible. 

The first time he had been half-cut, unsteady on his feet, and his main memory of the night had been amused blue eyes, laughter interrupting kisses, and the way the man had halted wandering hands and stroked Bucky’s hair until he fell asleep. It was a half-remembered confusion of gentle images that Bucky hadn’t known how to react to; mostly he had dealt with the unaccustomed sweetness by dropping to his knees the next time he saw that mischievous smile, sucking him off in a room full of men like he was getting paid for it. It was safer doing that than the way he had felt to wake up tangled in the ribbons of his mask, unsatisfied but somehow content in spite of his pounding head. 

They had fucked a number of ways since then, long and slow and torturous, and fast and hard and painfully good. And every time Bucky maintained the fiction that they were strangers - because they were, in actuality, no matter that Bucky was starting to know exactly how to touch him. No matter that Bucky no longer kissed anyone else. 

Bucky was grateful that the man was not a member of the court, at least. He had started avoiding going out into the town when he could, for fear that he would start looking for the particular curve of a smile. 

What this all meant was that when the carriage came to an abrupt stop in the forest, when there were threats of violence against the driver and footmen that rendered Bucky helpless, when the treasury box was stolen right from under Bucky’s nose... 

He knew exactly how the highwayman’s mouth would taste. 


	87. Chapter 87

Clint kinda hated the summer, ‘cos it played hell with being sad. Winter sad was easy - couch burrito, hot coffee, no one around to notice that you were sniffling into the throw pillows. Maybe if you got Lucky (heh) you even got to snuggle a dog. 

Summer was too goddamned hot for sad, and Clint wished to hell that his brain would make allowances for this fact. Instead he’d had to convince Kate that it was her idea to steal his dog for a while, ‘cos Lucky was too sensitive to his moods and kept trying to snuggle. 

He started out sprawled on the couch, trying for a cross-draft with his fan, but even that wasn’t enough to hold out against Bed-Stuy’s cracked concrete that radiated heat. He’d meant to get air-con, had installed it in all the units except his own, he just kinda kept forgetting to make himself a priority. 

Yeah, he heard himself. Yeah, he was in therapy. 

So instead he decided to make his way to Tony’s tower, because even though he didn’t spend so much time there there was plenty of room, and he figured he could find somewhere unobtrusive and _cool_. 

He tried to hang out in the lobby for a bit, ‘cos Tony sprang for the really awesome chairs, but the security guard was side-eyeing his sweatpants and he didn’t have a lanyard for his Avengers pass. So he slouched over to the elevator - one of the special ones that relied on retinal scans and took you right to the top - and made smug, meaningful eye contact with the guard as the doors slid closed. 

As perfect as the lobby air conditioning was, somehow the breeze on his floor was even better. 

(Yeah, he had a floor. He wasn’t sure how to deal with that.)

He wandered down the hallway, thoughtfully opened the door to the bedroom Tony had once showed him, and almost jumped out of his skin when something dark-coloured shifted against the light there. 

“What the hell?” he asked, but he asked it of a pair of battered combat boots, which quickly disappeared up into the air vents after the rest of the unidentified man. 

Clint figured that if someone was in the vents JARVIS probably knew about it, which meant either he was gonna get hunted down with extreme prejudice, or he was supposed to be there. Maybe they’d hired some really hot handymen, which was something Clint was interested to find out about. 

Still, it was cool in the darkness of the room and Clint had barely got any sleep the previous night, so he metaphorically and literally shrugged it off and curled up on his bed. 

His pillow smelled nice. 


	88. Chapter 88

Bucky shuffles his feet nervously, kicking at the worn lines painted onto the concrete, tracing the outline of an oil spillage with the tip of his toe. He should go inside - he’s been standing here for ten minutes like some kinda creep, and the sky is clenching its metaphorical fists and threatening rain. 

Thing is he’s scared, and he feels a little sick, and he’s angry and he’s _nervous_ and they’re all so tightly interwoven that he’s having some trouble working out what in hell he’s supposed to feel. 

The sick and angry is a little easier, maybe. That one he’s talked to his therapist about. PIcking up his car today is another in a long line of moments of acceptance, another internalisation of the fact that yeah, his arm is gone, but also that now he’s gonna have to make changes and accommodations for that. Accepting that he’s not just missing an arm, he’s _disabled_ , mostly by the concessions that people forget to make. 

Fuck.

Bucky runs the hand he’s got left through his hair, lets out a huff of breath, and decides that the other side of it - the scared and the nervous, because this is _Barton_ and Sons Auto - can’t be enough to stop him. If he’s gonna get some of his independence back, if he’s gonna do something other than sit in his college dorm and hate his life, he’s gonna have to pick up his modified car. The complicated feelings he’s got about Clint Barton’s face, about the grin he’d been wearing when he’d suggested him and his dad could do the work, they’re gonna have to be pushed to one side. 

Bucky takes a step forward, freezes on the threshhold, taken off guard by the sight of Clint in a white tank smeared with oil and sweat, his biceps beautifully outlined as he tightens something on the car above his head. 

“The fuck you staring at?” an aggressive voice calls, and Clint’s eyes snap to Bucky’s and then away, one of them ringed with fading purple. 

“Leave him, dad,” Clint says. “Just a kid from school.” 


	89. Chapter 89

The dog is still doped up from whatever the vet had had to do to him, grinning up at them and lazily thumping his tail. Clint hasn’t quit looking stressed, though, bordering on scared out of his mind, and Bucky hopes the universe appreciates the effort he’s expending, not going over there to grab one of his grime-caked hands. 

He clears his throat instead. Tries not to scowl too hard when Clint, startled, looks over to meet his eyes. 

“Hey,” Bucky says, “you did good.” 

The vet comes in then, saves the both of them from whatever was gonna fall out of Clint’s idiot mouth. 

“He’s going to be fine,” she says. “He’ll make a full recovery in time, given time and care.” She looks between them, her mouth curled into a rueful grin. “Who do I give the instructions to?” 

The slight apology in the hunch of her shoulders reminds them that it’s the bill, too - that whoever takes on responsibility for the dog takes that on too. Clint looks bowled over backwards. 

“I can’t -” he says. “My dad’ll kill me if I come home with a goddamn dog.” 

Bucky can read too much fear in his eyes to think that’s anywhere close to metaphorical. Clint chews on his lip. 

“What happens if he’s not our dog?” he asks. “What do you do with him then?” 

“We’ll keep him until he’s healed up,” she says. “And then he’ll go to a shelter where hopefully he’ll be adopted.”

“And if he’s not?” Clint asks, but her apologetic smile says it all. 

“Fuck,” Clint says. “ _Fuck_.” 

“I can take him,” Bucky says impulsively, idiotically. “I can - you could visit him.” 

And fuck if he wouldn’t do a lot worse than that to see Clint smile.

It’ll be fine. Steve won’t mind so much, and their room is on the ground floor; smuggling him in and out shouldn’t be too much of a trial. 

He squares his shoulders and takes the paperwork, and the string of numbers at the bottom makes him flinch. 

“I can’t - Clint, there’s no way I can pay this,” he says. 

Clint steels his jaw. 

“I can,” he says. “I’ll sell my bow.” 


	90. Chapter 90

There’s a limit to the number of times that Clint can say no... but then, he’s pretty sure there’s a limit to the number of times Bucky will put himself out there to ask, and they’re coming up on both of those pretty fuckin’ quick. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to say yes. Yes is woven through every fibre of his fuckin’ being, cut him open and, like tree rings, it’d show you exactly how long he’s wanted this. How much. 

They’re on Clint’s couch. 

Sometimes the tower is too damned much. Sometimes the noise and the all-too-blatant wealth - Clint’s not used to the excess, and sometimes he has to take the subway back to Bed-Stuy to remind himself who he’s supposed to be. 

Somehow Bucky’s never too much.

Somehow Bucky eased inside of that bubble about a week after their meeting, getting so close, so essential in a way only Tasha’s been before. 

So Clint’s having a too-much day, and Bucky’s beside him, quietly overwhelming in a different way. 

Clint breathes. Clint breathes. And he steels himself against the yes that runs through his veins, and doesn’t take Bucky’s hand. 

Because Clint is having a too-much day, because - Jesus - Clint is too goddamn much for anyone to take on. Too much of an idiot, too much of a mess, too much a ball of helpless need that’s still somehow strung through with _yes._

Something explodes on-screen and Bucky startles, twitches his head back towards TV, because that wasn’t where his attention had been. 

Clint lets out a sigh, scrubs a hand over his face, and turns to look at Bucky. No sneaking sideways glances, no quick flickering appreciation for his form; he stares at him, studies every last feature, longs to tangle his fingers into Bucky’s hair. 

Everything inside of him is yes. He just needs, one last time, for Bucky to _ask_. 

The credits roll. Bucky turns, hitches a leg up onto the couch, studies him calmly back. 

“This is either gonna make us or break us,” he says, and Clint nods ‘cos he’s only got one word left. 

“I want this,” Bucky says, “but I can’t keep throwing myself at a wall, here. I think we could be good. For each other, to each other - I think... I can’t keep asking. Just this one last time.” 

Clint smiles, lopsided, and opens his mouth. 


	91. Chapter 91

Bucky comes back to himself slowly, which is a luxury he never would’ve thought to want. 

His lungs hurt, and his palms are marked with deep red crescents, and there’s still dizziness spiralling through him, starting somehow in the small of his back. 

He feels weak. He feels afraid. He feels like he can’t cope with this while he’s on his own, balanced over an endless drop with no lifeline - except he isn’t alone. 

There’s a low murmur in his ear, sweet and kind of tuneless, and it takes him a second to identify it as the theme to goddamn Dog Cops. He’s not _touching_ anyone, but there’s body heat radiating right next to his face and he can smell faintly stale laundry and the musty warmth of skin. 

The archer. Barton.

He’s getting a little more into his rendition of the Dog Cops theme, now, and the couch Bucky’s sitting on is bouncing a little as Clint drums on his knees. Bucky times his breathing to the off-beats, and feels a little less like panic is fighting to get out of him. 

Clint doesn’t stop with the appalling singing, but he leans forward to grab a mug off the coffee table. Bucky reaches one trembling hand up to tuck his hair behind his ear and Clint waits paitently to hand him the coffee when he’s done. 

“Thanks,” he croaks, and takes a too-hot sip, wincing a little as it burns his lip. 

“Sorry,” Clint says, wincing a little in sympathy. “Timed it wrong. It usually takes you a little longer to come out of that.” 

Bucky blinks at him, kind of startled that this has become somehow routine. But it is familiar. The warmth, the coffee, even the awful tuneless singing that is all Clint can manage when he’s not wearing his aids. 

“Guess you make me feel safe,” he says, and Clint ducks his head to try to hide his grim, the way his cheeks are flushing a delicate pink. 

Bucky never noticed he had freckles, before. 

“Glad I could help,” Clint says, and Bucky watches him thoughtfully, feeling anticipation rush through him and clear away the last of the panic. 


	92. Chapter 92

Bucky doesn’t bother getting dressed, just goes to open the front door in his boxers, enjoying the flare of heat in darkened blue eyes. He leans against the door frame, hand resting on the opposite shoulder, and although there’s a moment’s hesitation before the guy stoops to kiss him it doesn’t stop it from feeling insanely good. His mouth is hot and lush and insistent, and Bucky relishes the slight ache in his neck. He’d never thought he’d have a thing for taller guys, but it seems like he’s ruined now. 

It had been such a bad idea - three beers down, lonely, Grindr open on his phone - but it’s a little hard to remember why as he’s crowded against the door frame with rough fingers tangled into his hair. Bucky swears at the gentle tug, tipping his head back further into it, and then there’s heat against his neck, soft lips and the shiver of stubble. 

“No marks,” he says, and there’s a moment of tense stillness. 

“You got somebody?” 

It’s none of his business, and Bucky doesn’t owe him anything, but he shivers at the hot breath of relief when Bucky tells him no. 

“Just a best friend I don’t wanna have to defend myself to,” he says, and there’s a bitter but understanding laugh. 

Bucky likes that there’s no pretence about this. Simple, straightforward, a direct route to the bedroom, no small talk over beer. He presses up as soon as the guy’s weight is on him, and there’s a thrill to the way that he doesn’t give way. Doesn’t hold him down, though, and that’s important too; Bucky wouldn’t say he always needs to be in charge, but he’s no so great at taking orders, either. 

It’s quicker than he’d like. Kicking off clothes to get lost in the darkness, hot breath and sure hands, more kisses than he would’ve expected. He finds himself making soft sounds but he bites his tongue to stop it shaping any names, and kissing has that advantage too. The man on top of him swears against Bucky’s temple when he comes, short sharp fricatives bitten out against his skin, a rush of hot breath and hot come against his belly, and a tongue trails through it before there’s the enveloping heat of a mouth around him. 

“Condom,” Bucky pants out. 

“Why, you been with anyone lately?”

It’s a fair point. He arches his back and runs his fingers through short tousled hair and bites and bites and bites his tongue. 

Bucky knows better than to expect any kind of afterglow, but the light going on immediately so they can find their clothes feels harsh against places he should’ve known would feel raw. 

“I miss you.” The words slip out against his will, low and almost angry, and Clint looks at him with no expression on his face and something hard behind his eyes. 

“Yeah, well I wasn’t the one who said we were done, Buck,” he says, and almost walks into the doorframe ‘cos he’s in such a rush to leave he’s still pulling his shirt on on his way out of the door. 


	93. Chapter 93

Back here, among the trash cans and the slick cardboard of boxes practically melted into the cracked tarmac from weeks and weeks of rain, there’s nobody to see the way he gets with Clint. 

It ain’t that Clint’s a guy. Not entirely. Obviously that’s a part of it, ‘cos he’s not lookin’ to get arrested any time soon, but he thinks he’d need to hide if he was like this about any of the girls around, too.

He’s got a certain reputation. It ain’t cultivated, precisely, ‘cos the only reason he wanted people to be scared of him is so they won’t kick Stevie’s ass. But maybe he’s let a little swagger slip into his walk, and maybe he gets a kick outta the way people look at him, and maybe he hauls the heaviest boxes down at the warehouse so he’s got something to show off if anyone squares up. 

His mom would kill him if he was anything but nice as pie to the girls he’ll sometimes dance with, but the questions they ask, wide eyes and waxy lipstick, he knows they’d give anything for him to be the farthest thing from sweet. 

Bravado, that’s what Bucky’s got, only it dies when he’s anywhere close to Clint. 

Bucky tugs Clint down so’s he can bury his face in the side of Clint’s neck, warm skin and fresh sweat drowning out the sharp scent of half-rotten Chinese food. Clint laughs and shifts closer, leaning his weight against Bucky and the wall behind him, and Bucky curls his arms around Clint’s waist and his hands into the back of his shirt, keeping him close, closer, closest. That way he won’t see what Bucky’s face does when Clint presses a kiss to the side of his head, the way it softens up his smile. 

“Yeah, you act all tough,” Clint says, so soft and low that even someone standing a foot away couldn’t hear, “but I’ve got you sussed.” 

“Fuck you,” Bucky says, and curls his hands tighter. 

“Ain’t you the sweetest,” Clint says, and he’s smiling, and Bucky can feel himself flushing prettiest pink as he curls himself in all close. 


	94. Chapter 94

“You’re not what I was expecting,” Bucky says, but tightens his arms when Clint tries to lift his head off Bucky’s chest, tries to get a look at what his face is doing. Eventually Clint huffs out a breath and lies back down, and his voice is practically easy when he speaks. 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Clint says, and Bucky sighs and presses a kiss against his tangled hair. 

“Nah, that ain’t it. You _hear_ it like it’s a bad thing.” 

Clint turns that around a couple of ways, but can’t quite get it to fit.

“I’m lost,” he says, and Bucky’s hand - the one that catches at the strands - comes up to wind into his hair. 

“Yeah,” he says, “me too. Didn’t get any kinda roadmap for this when I was growing up.” 

“You figured you’d get a wife and a dog and a couple of kids?” 

The sheets rustle as Bucky shrugs his shoulders. Around the edges of the curtains it’s the grey light where it’s edging into too early, rather than way too goddamned late, and Clint will believe Bucky’s pretence at sleep just as soon as the conversation gets too much. 

“I figured it’d be fairer if I died in the war,” he says, eventually, and Clint tightens the arm that’s slung across Bucky’s hips but doesn’t say anything, ‘cos this ain’t about him. Bucky lets out a breath and there’s the scratching sound of fingernails through stubble as he thinks. “I figured,” he says eventually, “that I was too much a coward to die on my own, and that I’d rather do it with guys relying on me than with someone I was pretending to love.” 

“Buck -” Clint starts, but he’s got no fuckin’ clue what to say. 

“First time I saw two old guys holding hands in the street I felt like my heart stopped beating,” Bucky says. “Or maybe like it finally knew how to do it right.” 

Clint turns his head and presses his mouth to Bucky’s skin, right where he can feel the gentle pounding against his lips.

“You want that with me?” Bucky asks, and Clint tosses it right back because he’s a master at ruining the important moments. 

“You callin’ me old?”

“Nah,” Bucky says, and Clint can tell he’s smiling. “I’m saying I want you to stick around until you are.”


	95. Chapter 95

Bucky stumbles back a step when he reaches his bedroom doorway, ‘cos there’s a big guy on the couch that he doesn’t know. He’s sprawled out like he owns it, lying on his front with a throw pillow cuddled against his chest, long enough that his feet are hooked up on the arm of the couch. 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

He startles awake, and he’s got pretty blue eyes to go with his tousled wheat-coloured hair. Takes him a second to focus, seems like, and then he yawns so wide Bucky hears his jaw crack and gives him a lazy grin. 

“You don’t remember last night at all, do you?” 

Bucky scowls. He remembers how it started, mostly, but things got a little fuzzy after the third bar. 

“I don’t remember inviting you to sleep on my couch,” he says, and the guy grunts and shuffles himself around until he’s sitting, pulling his shirt back down to cover a set of fuckin’ excellent abs. 

“You were in no kinda state to get home on your own,” the guy says. He makes a face and scratches at hearing aids that can’t have been comfortable to sleep in. “Any chance we can talk about this over coffee?” 

“I coulda got home on my own,” Bucky says, and the guy raises an eyebrow. 

“I figured you could use some help.”

“What, ‘cos I’ve only got one arm?” he asks belligerently and the guy snorts. 

“Yeah, and you kept trying to hit people with it. I wasn’t gonna leave you to get your pretty ass kicked when you couldn’t stand up straight.” The guy scrubs a hand over his face, looks mournfully at the coffeemaker for a second, and then shoves to his feet. His threadbare purple sneakers are placed neatly side by side at the door, and there’s something about that that tugs somewhere in Bucky’s chest. 

“Sit your pretty ass down,” he says. “I can at least caffeinate you before I kick you out.” 

“So what you’re saying,” the guy says slowly, thoughtfully, “is that I’ve got the length of a cup of coffee to convince you to let me take you out.” 

Bucky looks him up and down thoughtfully, the curls a smile on slow. 

“Sure,” he says. “Give it your best shot.”


	96. Chapter 96

Another explosion rocked the building, and the concrete around Bucky groaned. The pressure on his leg was excruciating, and until they could get Thor down to where he was, or the Hulk, he was gonna be useless. 

There was the scrape of a rubber-soled boot against a hard surface, and a shower of dust and fragments of concrete hit Bucky directly in the face. 

“Steve?” he said hopefully, but it was somehow both better and worse. 

Clint looked a wreck. His hair was plastered to his forehead with a mixture of blood and sweat, and there was a rip in the shoulder of his uniform that had a nasty graze underneath. Even as he scrambled down to where Bucky was lying it was clear from the awkwardness of his movement that he was in a lot of pain, and Bucky snarled and shoved up uselessly against the weight that covered him if only so he could smack the idiot around the back of the head. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snarled, and Clint’s lip cracked when he grinned. 

“Saving your life,” he said, and Bucky swore viciously. 

“You can’t shift this, idiot,” he snapped. “And none of your arrows are gonna be any use. Any explosives that will get rid of this concrete will take me right out with it.” 

“Yeah,” Clint said, “and so will the bomb they’re setting up in the next building, so I’m gonna go stop that.” 

“What?” 

“The others have got a lot to deal with right now but Thor’s got you on his to-do list,” Clint said, only the speed of his voice letting on about how he felt. “You’re probably gonna be pinned down here a little longer, but the fighting’s moved away some so provided I can -” 

“How many of them are there, Clint?” Bucky asked, and he was shoving at the concrete as he spoke, his voice breaking under the strain and the knowledge that it wasn’t gonna do any good. 

“Probably too many?” Clint said, and his smile wasn’t reaching his eyes. “But it’s okay, I have a plan, I’m pretty sure I can stop it before they take me out, and -”

“Clint -” 

“And there’s no way I’m letting you die.” Clint reached down with shaking fingers and brushed concrete dust away from the corner of Bucky’s mouth, and if an expression is worth a thousand words then Clint’s face was a novel that Bucky never wanted to read. 

“No,” Bucky said fiercely, but Clint just patted his cheek and shoved up to his feet, scaling the jagged remnants of the floor that Bucky had been blasted through. “ _Clint._ ” 

Clint glanced back over his shoulder, and Bucky struggled, and _hated_ him, and would never get to him in time. 

“Hey, you know that thing we’ve never said?” Clint asked, his voice unsteady. “Well I’m sayin’ it. Good luck, asshole.” 

And he was gone.


	97. Chapter 97

It’s the kinda windy that almost feels like it rocks the house, flinging sharp handfuls of rain against the window out of the glowering grey sky. Bucky shifts against the sheets but before he can even make a pretence of moving the arm slung across him tightens around his waist, grumbling noises coming from behind. 

Bucky kinda misses slow and lazy mornings. Thought he’d get a lot more of them when he quit the Avengers and followed Clint to Iowa, but that ain’t exactly how it’s worked out. 

“Goats need feeding,” he says, and Clint grumbles again, heaving himself up this time so he can flop down against Bucky’s chest. It’s no kinda impediment, with the supersoldier serum and all, but Bucky relaxes back just for a second and brushes his fingers lightly through Clint’s hair. 

The door’s rattling a little against the frame, which probably means there’re some window seals that have given in to the weather they’ve had lately, and Bucky makes a mental note to add it to Clint’s list. It’s Bucky’s turn to drive to the Costco, and that’s practically a whole day’s trip; he has to make sure Clint’s occupied while he’s gone or he’ll come home to more piglets and chickens in the kitchen and at least three additional cats. 

“Five more minutes,” Clint mumbles, a little wet against Bucky’s chest, and Bucky snorts. 

“It’s always five more minutes with you,” he says. “If I wasn’t inclined to stop you, how long d’you think we’d stay in this bed?”

There’s a moment of stillness then. Seems like even the wind drops outside, like it’s listening for what’ll happen next. Then in a flurry of sudden motion Clint shrugs himself out from under the covers and rolls to his side of the bed, to the mismatched nightstand that he bought from a Goodwill and sanded down so he could paint it the ugliest purple that Bucky’s ever seen. 

“What -?” Bucky starts, but he cuts himself off when Clint rolls back, shoving a hearing aid in awkwardly and with a small velvet box clutched tight in his other hand.

It’s not a surprise. Hell, Bucky found the ring months ago, and they’ve been making jokes about it ever since, ‘cos there hasn’t been a question that this was where they’d end up since maybe a week after Bucky had turned up here, battered and worn as the duffle on his back. But there’s still something incredible and hard to believe about the way Clint looks when he holds out the ring, still naked and covered with the marks of Bucky’s mouth, biting his lip like there’s any question left. 

“How about forever?” he asks, and Bucky cups his face and kisses him, soft and slow and perfect. His voice sounds a little threadbare when he speaks, like the old patchwork blanket that’s draped over their bed. 

“Yeah,”he says. “Forever sounds good to me.” 


End file.
